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SELECTED 
POEMS  and  BALLADS  of 

PAUL  FORT 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  BY 

JOHN  STRONG  NEWBERRY 


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SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

PAUL  FORT 


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PAUL    FORT 


SELECTED 

POEMS  AND  BALLADS 

OF 

PAUL  FORT- 

» • 

TRANSLATED   FROM   THE   FRENCH   BY 

JOHN   STRONG  NEWBERRY 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

LUDWIG  LEWISOHN 

AND  AN  APPRECIATION  BY 

.    CARL  SANDBURG 

WITH  FRONTISPIECE 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 
1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
DUFFIELD    &   COMPANY 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 


French  Ballads — 1897 

The  Eound 3 

THEWEDDrNG 3 

The  Maiden  Dead  in  the  Ecstacy  of  Love 4 

The  Skies  Are  Gay,  'Tis  Merry  May 5 

A  Queen  in  the  Sea 5 

The  Whales 7 

The  Complaint  of  the  Soldiers 7 

My  Joy  Has  Fallen  in  the  Grass 8 

I  Have  Small,  Blue  Flovvters 8 

The  Devil  in  the  Night 9 

Life        9 

The  Sw^eetest  Song 9 

From  Ballads  of  the  Storm 

Cradle  Song  for  the  Dying 10 

From  Ballads  of  the  Night 

The  Lament  of  the  King  and  Queen 11 

The  Kesponses  of  Dawn  and  Night 12 

From  My  Legends 

Orpheus  Charming  the  Animals 12 

From  A  Portfolio  of  Sketches 

The  Little  Annuitant 16 

The  Visit  of  Death 16 

The  Two  Clowns 17 

Mountain — 1898 

Images  of  My  Dreams Ig 

In  the  Wood 19 

Evening  Clouds 19 

Hymn  to  the  Sea 20 

Hymn  to  the  Author  of  These  Hymns 21 

The  Story  of  Louis  XI— 1898 

The  Story  of  Louis  XI 21 

The  Entrance  into  Rouen  of  Charles  the  Bold 26 

V 


^ 


vi  CONTENTS 

JOACfflM 27 

The  Piteous  Battle  OF  Mont-L'H£rt 28 

Sounds  of  Bells  and  of  Precious  Stones 32 

The  IVIiRACULous  Catch 32 

The  Heroic  Resistance  of  the  City  of  Beauvais 35 

Let  Pass  My  Sweet  Little  Louis  XI 39 

Antique  Idylls  and  Hymns — 1900 

The  Cup  of  IMenalchus 42 

Morpheus 44 

Icarus 45 

The  Voyage  of  Jason 47 

Sailor's  Love — 1900 

The  Cord 52 

A  Song  of  Fate 52 

You  Can  Depart 53 

The  Kisses 53 

Song  of  the  Sunburned  Sailors 54 

The  One-Eyed  Cat 54 

The  Cur6  of  Langrune-Sur-IMer 54 

The  Snuff-Taker 55 

Song  at  Dawn 56 

Paris  Sentimental — 1902 

The  Meeting 57 

First  Appointment 58 

On  the  Pont  Au  Change 60 

Bullier 62 

From  The  Bohemia  op  the  Heart  and  Penny  Romances 

My  Portrait 65 

Meudon 65 

The  Great  Drunkenness 66 

Hymns  of  Flame — 1903 

The  Dolphin 67 

From  LuciENNE 71 

Coxcomb— 1906 

Coxcomb  (Fragment:  First  Pages) 73 

From  The  Book  of  Visions 

The  Sadness  of  Pan 78 

Philomel 80 

The  Return 81 

The  Little  Lights 82 


CONTENTS  vii 

Eternity 82 

Henri  III 83 

Ile-de-France — 1908 
From  Coucy-le-Chateau 

The  Arrival  at  Coucy-Le-Chateau 90 

From  Senlis 

Senlis — Early  Morning 92 

The  Little  Silent  Street 93 

From  Margot,  My  Page 

Moonlight        93 

The  Hunter 94 

Mortcerf — 1909 

The  Beautiful  Names 95 

The  Forest  of  Cr^cy 96 

Sale  of  the  "Coin  Musard" 97 

From  Nemours 

Horizons 100 

Fro7n  Velizy 

The  Mystic  Hour 101 

From  Ballads  and  Cantilenas 

Ophelia 101 

The  Queen  and  the  Kino 101 

Hamlet 102 

King  Claudius 102 

fortinbras 103 

Lament  of  the  Little  White  Horse 104 

The  Sadness  of  Man — 1910 

Through  Melancholy 104 

The  Terror 105 

Shade  of  the  "Woods 107 

The  Happy  Man 107 

F7-om  Repose  op  the  Soul  in  the  "Wood  of  L  'Hautil 

Dream  of  the  First  Day 108 

The  Marriage  of  the  Oise  and  the  Seine 109 

Ode  to  Pissefontaine 110 

The  God  of  Sunny  Days Ill 

Prayer  to  Conjure  Away  the  Rain Ill 

The  Abandoned  Chapel 112 

Frotn  Note  Book  of  Romances  and  Laments 

The  Italian 113 


viii  CONTENTS 

Lament  of  the  Ruined  Chateaux  in  Winter 113 

The  Eternal  Adventure — 1911 

The  Eternal  Adventure.    Book  I  (First  Pages) 115 

From  In  Gatinais 

Dedication  to  the  Land 123 

Repose  at  Noon 124 

Living  as  a  God — 1912 

Matinal  Survey  of  the  City 126 

The  Seven  Houses  of  Jean  Racine 129 

Nocturnal  Crime  at  the  Chateau 132 

The  Vigil  of  the  Poet 133 

Cantilena  and  Cry  of  Adieu  on  the  Hill  of  the  Manor  .     .     .  133 

The  Memory 135 

The  Eternal  Adventure.    Book  III  (First  Pages)     ....  136 
Songs  to  Console  Me  for  Being  Happy — 1913 

Richard  Cceur-de-Lion 138 

From  In  Andelys 

Prayer  to  the  Great  Norman  Water-Sprites 142 

On  the  Bank  of  the  Seine 143 

Prose — To  the  Most  Beautiful  Light 144 

Have  I  Leisure  to  Devote  Myself  to  Poesy? 145 

Long  Live  the  Skies  of  Normandy 146 

From  Laments  and  Sayings 

Chime  at  Dawn 147 

If  Peau  D'Ane  Were  Told  to  Me— 1916 

Saint  Hubert  of  Gambaiseuil 147 

Two  Cottages  in  the  Land  of  the  Yveline — 1916 

The  Daughters  of  the  King  of  Spain — A  French  Song  .     .     .  154 

The  Journey        156 

The  Little  Calves  of  Les  Haizettes 157 

Our  Cottage  in  Yveline 157 

The  Azure  Frog 158 

The  Poacher's  Time-Piece 159 

A  Sorcerer  Before  My  House 159 

Song  of  the  Evening 161 

The  Axe 161 

The  Adieu  to  Haizettes 162 

The  New  Cottage 163 

The  Thrill  of  the  Forest 165 

First  Day  of  War 166 


CONTENTS  ix 

Poems  of  France — 1914-1915 

The  Cathedral  of  Kheims 167 

The  Traitor 171 

The  Marseillaise 173 

In  Time  of  War— 1917 

That  Is  Why  Our  Sons  Are  Heroes 176 

In  the  Land  of  the  Windmills — 1921 

Forgotten        179 


The  translator  thanks  the  editors  of  Poetry, 
Broom,  and  The  Cygnet  for  permission  to  re- 
print certain  of  the  poems  in  this  book. 


INTRODUCTION 

Paul  Fort  has  likened  himself  to  Shelley.  His  lyrical  gift  is  so  pure 
and  strong  that  the  comparison  seems  neither  arrogant  nor  absurd. 
But  his  difference  from  Shelley  is  more  important  than  any  kinship: 
he  is  at  home  not  only  in  the  world  but  in  the  universe.  No  essential 
conflicts  rend  the  harmony  or  darken  the  lucidity  of  his  soul.  Nor  has 
he  had  to  win  this  peace.  It  has  always  been  his ;  he  has  always  known 
it,  as  he  declares  all  things  must  be  known — by  heart. 

To  Paul  Fort  life  and  the  world  are  a  beautiful  and  eternal  pageant 
of  rivers  and  stars  and  fields,  of  people  and  of  things  made  with  hands. 
And  the  passions  that  have  moved  this  pageant  are,  to  his  vision,  an 
integral  part  of  it,  but  one  that  he  perceives  pictorially  and  in  which 
he  sees  pictorial  and  poetic  values  wherewith  to  feed  his  unending  in- 
terest in  gesture  and  color  and  form.  He  is  not  oblivious  of  pain  nor 
of  ugliness.  But  he  has  let  all  things  flow  through  his  refashioning 
soul  and  found  them  good. 

He  is  the  blithest  and  most  limpid  of  poets.  Yet  he  constantly  escapes 
the  danger  of  shallowness  by  virtue  of  a  pagan  earnestness  at  the  root 
of  his  delight,  a  harmony  with  the  great  procession  of  appearances,  a 
deep  and  instinctive  union  with  the  sun's  warmth,  the  star's  glitter, 
the  flight  of  birds,  the  tread  of  wayfarers,  the  splendor  of  antique 
raiment.  **A11  nature,"  he  says,  **is  on  the  threshold  of  my  heart." 
"The  earth  and  the  sun  are  but  one  fatherland."  "I  would  caress 
nature  with  my  fingers  as  though  she  were  an  instrument  that  answers 
to  my  dream."  This  is  perhaps,  as  I  started  by  saying,  the  central 
point  of  Paul  Fort's  creative  psychology:  the  universe  answers  his 
dream.  Joy  is  his  chief  note.  If  ever  he  loses  joy  he  is  astonished  as 
a  child  might  be  astonished  or  a  faun.  His  habitual  mood  is  one  of  a 
glad,  swift  swimmer  whose  strong  limbs  flash  through  the  seas  and 
rivers  of  the  world.  "Quickly  the  goal  I'd  reach,  softly  descend  the 
breeze.  My  laughter  I  would  teach  to  the  Eumenides."  He  is  indeed 
"the  gay  sprite  of  cosmic  fire  no  curb  restrains." 

Fort's  untroubled  acceptance  of  all  things  as  beautiful  and  inter- 

xi 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

esting  in  their  own  nature  has  made  him  one  of  the  most  copious  and 
one  of  the  most  realistic  of  modern  poets.  He  has  rightly  called  his 
poems  ballads.  He  is  a  ballad  singer,  a  minstrel  of  the  universe.  He 
wanders  the  roads  of  the  world.  He  sees  a  landscape,  a  vivid  gesture: 
an  historical  incident  floats  into  his  mind.  He  indites  a  ballad.  Since 
he  loves  all  things,  he  makes  no  false  distinctions  between  noble  and 
ignoble.  A  sailor's  sweethearting  is  as  fine  a  subject  as  the  subtle 
machinations  of  a  great  king.  And  he  treats  all  these  subjects,  even 
the  most  intricate  ones,  with  something  of  the  ballad  singer's  straight 
simplicity  of  development  in  action  and  with  a  constant  heightening 
and  deepening  of  the  spiritual  overtones  which  the  old  minstrels  had. 
For  this  purpose  he  revives  the  refrain  and  uses  parallelism  and  the 
haunting  laconic  implications  of  speech  of  the  old  folk-songs. 

This  brings  me  to  the  much  debated  question  of  his  metrical  inno- 
vations which  are  not  so  startling  as  many  have  supposed.  By  print- 
ing his  verse  in  the  typographical  manner  of  prose  he  has  marked 
several  devices.  He  has  carried  enjambement  to  its  last  necessary  con- 
clusion. He  has  liberated  the  rhythmic  unit  from  any  coincidence  with 
the  syntactical  one.  Furthermore,  he  hears  staves  rather  than  lines 
and  has  often,  though  not  as  often  as  has  been  asserted,  broken  with  the 
line  regularity  of  the  French  tradition  and  has  allied  himself,  uncon- 
sciously perhaps,  to  the  Germanic  variation  of  melodic  structure.  This 
appears  most  clearly  so  soon  as  we  print  a  stanza  in  the  ordinary  manner : 

I  am  happy !    I  alone 
This  gift  from  Fate  could  wring 
Because  my  lyre  has  known 
How  to  sing  everything. 

Thus  his  form  combines  new  elements  with  very  ancient  ones  and  lends 
itself  with  exquisite  appropriateness  to  that  spirit  of  balladist  and  folk- 
singer  which  he  has  brought  to  the  poetry  of  modern  France.  The  imi- 
tations of  his  method  by  the  ultra-sophisticated,  the  makers  of  glittering 
images,  do  him  wrong.  His  deepest  note,  his  most  enduring  accent,  is 
found  in  such  lyrics  as  (vide  infra)  "The  Complaint  of  the  Soldiers"  or 
"The  Kisses,"  in  which  simple  and  old  and  recurrent  things  are  treated 
with  healthy  realism,  passionate  brevity,  and  that  unquestioning  accept- 
ance of  man's  lot  which  is  always  and  everywhere  the  possession  of  the 
folk  and  its  singers. 
To  translate  a  poet  who  is,  from  one  point  of  view,  so  original  and 


INTEODUCTION  xiii 

daring  and  from  another  so  simple  and  naive  is  a  formidable  task.  It  is 
easy  to  succeed  with  a  few  pieces ;  it  is  difficult  to  succeed  even  tolerably 
when  many  are  attempted.  Mr.  Newberry's  verisions  are  many  and  I 
think  that  very  nearly  all  of  them  are  extraordinarily  beautiful  and  faith- 
ful at  once.  A  number  of  them  are  not  below  the  originals  in  grace  and 
significance ;  all  are  notably  interesting  for  both  their  workmanship  and 
their  poetic  feeling.  Hence  this  volume  not  only  introduces  to  American 
readers  one  of  the  most  eminent  and  attractive  of  French  poets  but  forms 
an  admirable  addition  to  our  own  rather  small  store  of  first  rate  poetical 
scholarship  and  skill. 

LuDWiQ  Lewisohn. 


AN    APPRECIATION 

Paul  Fort  is  a  phenomenon  of  nature.  He  should  be  recommended 
as  one  would  recommend  a  bird,  a  spider,  a  tree,  or  a  strip  of  larkspur 
up  a  mountainside,  in  the  matter  of  human  companionship. 

For  those  who  love  and  enjoy  the  poetry  of  Paul  Fort  to  explain 
why  they  do  so  is  to  tell  why  they  love  and  enjoy  the  thing  which  they 
choose  to  call  poetry  or  art. 

It  might  be  easy  to  say  what  America  needs  more  than  anything 
else  is  a  something  made  up  of  the  stuffs  and  fluids  that  constitute  the 
phenomenon  of  nature  known  as  Paul  Fort.  It  might  be  easy  to  say 
that  and  yet,  easy  as  the  saying  of  it  would  be,  it  might  be  a  porten- 
tous truth  that  would  dawn  the  keener  as  the  writings  of  Paul  Fort 
were  read. 

The  poetry  of  North  America  nearest  like  that  of  Paul  Fort  is  to  be 
found  in  songs  and  legends  of  the  Red  Indian.  The  early  copper- 
faces  would  have  said  they  understood  the  phantoms  and  intangibles 
that  march,  fly  and  turn  somersaults  in  the  lines  of  our  Frenchman. 

I  am  thankful  personally,  and  I  am  glad  for  the  sake  of  many  young 
men  and  women  I  know,  that  John  Strong  Newberry  has  done  a  work 
of  translation  that  will  bring  closer  home  the  art  of  a  gay,  deep-sing- 
ing Frenchman. 

Carl  Sandburg. 


SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS   OF 

PAUL  FORT 


SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

PAUL  FORT 

FRENCH  BALLADS. 

1897. 

THE  ROUND. 

Should  all  the  girls  of  the  world  be  fain  to  join  their  hands  and  form 
a  chain,  the  round  would  reach  along  the  beach  and  girdle  all  the 
main. 

Should  all  the  lads  of  the  world  agree  that  they  would  jolly  sailors 
be,  the  boats  they'd  man  would  form  a  span  that  stretched  across  the 
sea. 

Then  'twould  be  found  that  one  could  dance  the  world  around,  ah, 
happy  chance !  should  all  folk  of  the  world  be  fain  to  join  their  hands 
and  form  a  chain. 

THE  WEDDING. 

Ah,  day  of  joy!  The  sound  of  pipe  and  flute  with  sweetly  blending 
tone  doth  charm  the  sense,  and  young  and  old  approach  with  eager  foot, 
lured  by  the  call  of  sweet-voiced  instruments. 

Gay,  gay,  let  us  be  wed,  coifs  and  ribbons  and  bridal  bell.  Gay,  gay, 
let  us  be  wed,  and  this  happy  couple  as  well. 

Fair  blossoms  fill  the  church  from  side  to  side.  Bells  great  and  small 
chime  out  the  wedding  tune, — three  hundred  small  bells  for  the  eyes  of 
the  bride,  a  clanging  tocsin  for  the  heart  of  the  groom. 

3 


4       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Gay,  gay,  let  us  be  wed,  coifs  and  ribbons  and  bridal  bell.  Gay,  gay, 
let  us  be  wed,  and  this  happy  couple  as  well. 

The  pealing  chime  has  silenced  every  tongue.  Ah,  sorrow,  when  it 
rings  for  us  no  more!  Weep  o'er  your  prayer-books,  ye  that  are  not 
young.    Soon  it  will  toll  to  say  your  life  is  o'er. 

Gay,  gay,  let  us  be  wed,  coifs  and  ribbons  and  bridal  veil.  Gay,  gay, 
let  us  be  wed,  and  this  happy  couple  as  well. 

Now  it  is  done  and  the  church  bells  abate.  Dance  to  the  pair  with 
passion's  over  plus.  Cheer  for  the  lad  and  the  lass  and  the  fete!  Ah, 
we  are  glad  when  it  is  not  for  us ! 

Gay,  gay,  let  us  be  wed,  coifs  and  ribbons  and  bridal  bell.  Gay,  gay, 
let  us  l3e  wed,  and  this  happy  couple  as  well. 

Ah,  day  of  joy!  "With  sound  of  pipe  and  flute  old  age  awhile  forgets 
its  impotence.  Dance,  boys  and  girls !  The  world  is  'neath  your  foot  I 
0,  the  delight  of  sweet-voiced  instruments! 


THE  MAIDEN  DEAD  IN  THE  ECSTACY  OF  LOVE. 
This  maiden  she  is  dead,  is  dead,  while  love  was  fresh  and  new. 
They  laid  her  in  the  earth,  the  earth,  before  the  night  was  through. 
They  bedded  her  alone,  alone,  wrapped  in  a  bride's  array. 
They  bedded  her  alone,  alone,  low-coffined  in  the  clay. 
They  left  her  merrily,  merrily,  when  dawn  made  bright  the  way. 
A-singing  merrily,  merrily.    "Each  in  his  turn,"  sang  they. 
"This  maiden  she  is  dead,  is  dead,  while  love  was  fresh  and  new." 
They  went  to  till  the  fields,  the  fields,  as  every  day  they  do.  .  .  . 


PAUL   FORT  5 

THE  SKIES  ARE  GAY,  'TIS  MERRY  IVIAY. 

Beyond  the  hedge  the  sea  doth  glint.    Never  shell  shone  so  well.    One 
longs  to  go  a-fishing  in 't.    The  skies  are  gay,  'tis  merry  May. 

Sweet  is  the  sea  beyond  the  hedge,  soft  and  bland  as  baby's  hand. 
One  longs  to  kiss  its  crinkled  edge.    The  skies  are  gay,  'tis  merry  May. 

'Tis  with  the  breeze's  fingers  clever,  all  ashine  with  needles  fine,  that 
hedge  and  sea  are  sewn  together.    The  skies  are  gay,  'tis  merry  May. 

Upon  the  hedge  the  waves  display  their  fluttering  bits  of  foamy  spray. 
White  sails  are  flashing  o'er  the  bay.    The  skies  are  gay,  'tis  merry  May. 

The  hedge,  it  is  an  ocean  deep  where  golden  scarab  beetles  sleep. 
Black  whales  are  ungainlier  far.     The  skies  are  gay,  'tis  merry  May. 

Soft  as  a  tear  upon  the  cheek  the  sea's  a  tear  upon  the  hedge  that 
softly  seeks  the  water's  edge.    But  one  has  no  desire  to  weep. 

* '  A  lad  has  fallen  in  the  wave, "    "  Dead  in  the  sea !    A  goodly  grave ! '  * 
One  cannot  weep  his  fate  to-day.    The  skies  are  gay,  'tis  merry  May. 


A  QUEEN  IN  THE  SEA. 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  flood. 

A  queen  of  high  descent  once  loved  a  sailor  rude..  To  India  he  went 
with  greed  of  gain  imbued. 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  flood. 

With  tall,  black  ships  a  King  conquered  the  Queen's  countree!    Ah, 
bitter  was  the  sting!    She  leaped  into  the  sea. 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  flood. 

"Queen  in  the  sea!"    A  whale  in  search  of  cod  or  mullet  wagged  a 
contented  tail  and  stowed  her  in  his  gullet. 


6        SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  flood. 

In  that  black  ventral  part  a  sorry  time  she  had,  but  still,  with  faith- 
ful heart,  she  loved  her  sailor  lad. 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  flood. 

So  that  good  whale,  the  most  considerate  of  mammals,  swam  to  the 
Indian  coast,  a  land  where  there  are  camels. 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  flood. 

One  of  these  beasts  above,  throned  in  a  palanquin,  she  recognized  her" 
love,  now  monarch  of  Tonkin. 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  flood. 

"Sailor,  console  your  queen.    Come  back  my  throne  to  share."   "Not 
I !    In  my  hareem  are  many  maids  more  fair.'* 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  flood. 

"You  smell  of  the  sepulchre."    "A  whale  devoured  me.    Sailor,  'tis 
not  of  the  sepulchre  I  smell,  but  of  the  sea." 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  flood. 

"Each  houri  of  my  string  of  fine  rice-powder  smells,  like  the  Queen 
to  the  King  that  they  say  in  Paris  dwells." 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  flood. 

Then  weeping  she  returned  into  the  waiting  whale  and  for  her  native 
land  sorrowfully  set  sail. 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  flood. 

With  tall,  black  ships  a  King  conquered  the  Queen's  countree.    Her 
pain  has  lost  its  sting  and  like  a  lamb  is  she. 

With  our  good  boats  brave  the  tempestuous  sea. 


PAUL   FORT  3 

THE  WHALES. 

In  the  days  when  still  one  went  to  look  for  whales,  cruising  so  far, 
sailor,  it  made  our  sweethearts  weep,  there  was  on  every  road  a  Christ 
upon  the  cross,  there  were  marquises  covered  with  lace,  there  was  the 
Holy  Virgin  and  there  was  the  King. 

In  the  days  when  still  one  went  to  look  for  whales,  cruising  so  far, 
sailor,  it  made  our  sweethearts  weep,  there  were  mariners  who  kept 
the  faith,  and  mighty  lords  who  spat  upon  it,  there  was  the  Holy  Virgin 
and  there  was  the  King. 

Well,  nowadays,  the  whole  world  is  content,  'tis  no  mere  empty  phrase, 
sailor,  in  truth  one  is  content !  .  .  .  There  are  no  more  mighty  lords  nor 
Christs  upon  the  cross,  but  there  is  the  republic  and  there  is  the  presi- 
dent, and  there  are  no  more  whales. 


THE  COMPLAINT  OF  THE  SOLDIERS. 

When  they  were  come  back  from  the  wars  their  heads  were  seamed 
with  bleeding  scars, 

their  hearts  betwixt  clenched  teeth  they  gripped,  in  rivulets  their 
blood  had  dripped, 

when  they  were  come  back  from  the  wars,  the  blue,  the  red,  the  sons 
of  Mars, 

they  sought  their  snuff-boxes  so  fine,  their  chests,  their  sheets  all  spof- 
less  showing, 

they  sought  their  Mne,  their  grunting  swine,  their  wives  and  swee^ 
hearts  at  their  sewing, 

their  roguish  children,  like  as  not  crowned  with  a  shining  copper 
pot, 

they  even  sought  their  homes,  poor  souls  .  .  .  they  only  found  the 
worms  and  moles. 

The  carrion  raven  clamored  o'er  them. — They  spat  their  broken  hearta 
before  theml 


8        SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OP 
MY  JOT  HAS  FALLEN  IN  THE  GRASS. 

My  joy  has  fallen  in  the  grass,  good  people  of  the  plain,  fortunate 
folk,  bring  all  your  lanterns,  help  me  to  find  it  again. 

My  sweetheart  went  away  with  a  great  white  cavalier.  I  followed, 
heavy-hearted.  I  followed  far  in  the  plain.  My  arrow  found  its  mark. 
And  my  sweetheart  fell  from  her  great  black  steed  in  the  plain,  and 
when  the  night  grew  dark  the  cavalier  departed. 

Bring  all  your  lanterns,  good  people  of  the  plain,  fortunate  folk,  my 
joy  has  fallen  in  the  grass,  help  me  to  find  it  again. 

"It  was  not  she  you  should  have  slain  of  the  two,  'twas  the  great 
white  cavalier.  You  would  have  found  your  Joy  again  still  alive  and 
for  love  still  fain.  Perhaps  she  would  have  pardoned  you."  "I  did 
not  dare  to  shoot  at  him,  that  great  cavalier  in  his  pride,  he  had  an  air 
too  menacing  with  his  sabre  by  his  side. ' ' 

My  joy  has  fallen  in  the  grass,  good  people  of  the  plain,  fortunate 
folk,  bring  all  your  lanterns,  help  me  to  find  it  again. 

If  it  was  she  that  you  saw  indeed,  your  joy,  you  can  make  a  cross 
above.  Though  your  search  for  a  hundred  years  should  last  you  will 
only  find  the  earth  and  the  grass,  or  the  snow  beneath  the  wintry  blast, 
twinkling  glow-worms  the  turf  may  cover,  but  never  will  you  find  your 
love. 

Bring  all  your  lanterns,  good  people  of  the  plain,  fortunate  folk, 
my  joy  has  fallen  in  the  grass,  help  me  to  find  it  again. 


I  HAVE  SMALL,  BLUE  FLOWERS. 

I  have  small,  blue  flowers,  I  have  small,  blue  flowers,  clearer  than 
your  eyes. — Then  on  your  love  bestow  one! — They  are  mine,  they 
belong  to  no  one.  High  on  the  mountain's  crest,  my  love,  high  on  the 
mountain's  crest. 


PAUL   FORT  9 

I  have  carbuncles,  I  have  carbuncles,  more  vivid  than  your  mouth. — 
Then  on  your  love  bestow  one! — They  are  mine,  they  belong  to  no  one. 
Under  the  ashes  at  home,  my  love,  under  the  ashes  at  home. 

I  have  found  a  heart,  I  have  found  two  hearts,  I  have  found  a  thou- 
sand hearts. — Show  them  to  me! — I  have  found  love,  it  belongs  to  all 
the  world.    Everywhere  on  the  road,  my  love,  everywhere  on  the  road. 

THE  DEVIL  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

"With  ruby  eyes  a-peer  the  devil,  all  night  long,  stalks  squeaking  mice 
to  spear  upon  his  little  prong. 

A  million  mice  so  fat  he  bags  ere  dawn  is  pale.  They  sizzle  in  a  vat, 
stirred  by  his  red-hot  tail. 

He  gives  the  broth  thereof  to  lovers  impolite,  who,  fondling  day  and 
night,  publish  abroad  their  love. 

"When  they  their  hearts  disgorge  into  the  vat,  until  it's  o'er-brimming, 
in  his  forge  he  shapes  them  into  skillets. 

Skillets  that  he  employs,  tied  to  his  greenish  tail,  to  make  a  noise, 
a  noise,  all  night  long  in  the  gale. 

LIFE. 
With  the  first  chime  they  said  "  'Tis  Christ  in  manger  laid,  ..." 

The  bells  ring  out  full  tide:  **0  happiness!    My  bride!" 

Then  soon  the  great  bells  toll  for  a  departed  soul. 

THE  SWEETEST  SONG. 

I  would  sing  no  louder  than  the  shepherd's  pipe,  nor  than  the  croon 
my  osier  cradle  weaves,  less  loud  than  the  lark,  no  louder  than  the  ripe 
barley  that  sways,  beneath  the  belfry's  height,  at  dawn's  immaculate 
threshold  rustling  sheaves — no  louder  than  the  rain  upon  the  leaves.  .  .  . 

I  long  for  song  more  soft  than  murmuring  loaves,  daintier  than 
the  brook  through  osiers  singing,  remoter  than  the  soaring  lark  that 
cleaves  the  skies  of  June,  unfathomed  azure  winging,  more  fugitive  than 


10       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

at  dawn  the  belPs  faint  ringing,  or  tlie  hid  sweet  note  that  in  my  oboe 
grieves. 

But,  oh !  the  song  of  love  ...  0,  to  recapture  the  pensive,  nonchalant, 
caressing  air  with  which  the  Virgin  mild,  to  wide-eyed  rapture,  beguiled 
the  lovely  Christchild  heavenly-fair,  the  tune  that  Joseph  whistled, 
debonair,  above  his  joiner's  bench  one  holy  morn  when,  to  its  lilt,  the 
Dream  of  the  Babe  was  born. 

0  frailest  sounds!  0  song's  supreme  delight  that  Jesus  breathed 
to  the  skies  of  Bethlehem,  or  that  the  Syrians  murmur  in  the  night, 
waking  their  citharas,  while  over  them,  with  slender  shafts  to  the  wist- 
ful cadence  bent,  their  hearkening  fountains  form  a  firmament. 

Fro7n  BALLADS  OF  THE  STORM. 

CRADLE  SONG  FOR  THE  DYING. 

Do  not  believe  in  death.  See  how  the  sunlight  streams  through  space 
to  gladden  your  sad  face.  Let  no  vain  tears  be  shed.  Clear  as  your 
soul  are  the  skies.  Through  dark  oblivion  strikes  a  sudden  beam — and 
death  is  all  agleam. 

Do  not  believe  in  death.  The  birds  are  freed  from  the  cages  of  the 
dark  and  silent  wood  where  they  so  long  were  pent.  Let  no  vain  tears 
be  shed,  like  your  soul  the  skies  are  singing.  No  longer  are  they  mute. 
And  death  is  radiant! 

Death  stands  before  you  luminous  and  singing,  and  it  is  life !  In  the 
calm  an  angel  dislodges  the  pearl  of  your  soul  amid  the  musical,  radiant 
voices  of  archangels. 

They  sing  unheeded  by  this  careless  world  that  has  forgot  the  splen- 
dour of  man's  celestial  home  in  skies  afar.  But  faithful  death  has 
come.  And  the  stars  are  singing  in  the  skies  towards  that  remembered 
star. 

And  lo !  the  luminous  end !  Pure  as  your  soul  are  the  sides.  Do  not 
believe  in  death.  All  tranquil  is  your  face.  Your  soul  is  fresh  as 
morning's  first  embrace.    Young  as  your  soul  are  the  skies. 


PAUL   FORT  11 

And  death  is  o'er  and  life  at  last  shines  clear,  unrecognized  before. 
On  every  side  bright  souls  appear,  forever  luminous,  purged  from  muddy 
sins,  filling  with  splendour  all  the  void  of  space.  The  other  life  was 
but  a  tempest's  roar.    Pure  is  your  face — and  happy  life  begins. 

From  BALLADS  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  KING  AND  QUEEN. 

All  in  the  woodland  green,  sombrely  dight,  wandered  a  king  and 
queen  at  the  fall  of  night. 

She  has  the  chain,  and  he  bears  the  lamb  of  gold — ''Take  back  the 
chain,"  said  she,  "All  our  love  is  cold." 

"You  loved  me,  queen.  Can  I  cancel  love's  pain?  Then  take  this 
lamb  of  gold,  arid  the  chain  retain." 

"Let  us  be  still,  be  still,  where  moonlight  blanches.  Farewell  requites 
farewell  'neath  sighing  branches." 

One  shade  to  the  chateau,  lonely,  returns.  One  shade,  with  gold 
aglow,  flees  through  the  ferns. 

What,  that  has  not  been  said,  what  shall  I  say  of  loves  so  quickly 
dead  'mid  nights  of  May? 

Say  that  the  heaven's  seem  ne'er  to  agree  with  life's  eternal  dream, 
love's  fantasy? 

O  'er  the  dead  loves  we  mourn  gold  skies  are  bending.  Splendid  criter- 
ion of  loves  unending ! 

Love,  'tis  a  chilling  rain  falls  on  us  soon.  Suffer,  above  our  pain  bright' 
shines  the  moon. 

Here  the  lament  dies,  dies  of  melancholy. — "A  king  and  queen  once 
loved,  loved  with  tender  folly. ' ' 

Ah,  passion's  brittlenessi  Weary  refrain! — "Alas,  the  littleness  of 
our  loves  mundane.  .  .  . '  * 


12       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

THE  EESPONSES  OF  DAWN  AND  NIGHT 

— Do  you  hear  the  stars  that  tremble  in  the  sky  1 

— Do  you  hear  my  heart  each  moment  grow  more  pale? 

— Do  you  hear  Dawn  lift  her  rustling  veils  on  high? 

— Listen,  a  heart  assumes  the  ultimate  veil. 

— Like  a  rich  trophy  the  great  sun  mounts  the  sky. 

— Of  too  much  ^'ictory  my  heart  is  dying. 

— Do  you  hear  the  weeping  of  the  fountains? 

— Do  you  hear  the  fairies'  sighing  breath? 

— I  hear  the  sobbing  of  the  fountains  .  .  . 

— ^The  ivory  horn  of  death. 


From  MY  LEGENDS. 

J 
ORPHEUS  CHARMING  THE  ANIMALS. 

'Neath  dawn's  caress  a  silvery  mountain  shone. 

And  this  was,  on  every  hand,  like  a  full  surgeless  sea  whose  ebb  un- 
veils the  gleam  of  some  far-sunken  hoard,  when  penetrating  dawn  tanned 
with  its  pallid  beam  the  sward  of  dewy  glades  deep  in  the  sleeping  wood. 

On  the  silvered  mountain  at  daybreak,  Orpheus  sang. 

And  this  was,  on  every  hand,  beneath  the  murmurous  leaves  the 
wakened  forest  merged  in  one  concerted  theme  by  many  voices  urged, 
harsh  from  the  trail's  dark  edge,  clear  from  the  crests  and  the  sedge 
of  many  a  woodland  stream. 

The  lion's  voice  towards  the  lyre  of  Orpheus  rose. 

It  was  he  who  came,  at  da^vn  suddenly  to  appear!  Growling,  'twas  he 
who  came.  .  .  .  And  the  singer  was  erect  before  the  flaming  dawn,  erect 
before  the  ravening  beast  of  prey,  clasping  the  glittering  lyre  between 
his  hands,  comely  and  free  from  fear. 

Flattened  against  the  rocks,  the  lion  listened. 


PAUL   FORT  13 

The  mingled  voices  of  the  man  and  lyre,  cadenced  the  mounting  hour, 
rhythmed  the  skies  on  fire.  The  lion  came  with  humble  tongue  to  lick 
the  sandaled  feet  sublime  of  him  whose  soaring  song,  farflung,  seemed 
like  the  golden  voice  of  Time. 

All  came  to  hear  that  voice  and  all  were  charmed. 

The  tiger  stretched  himself,  long  as  a  tenuous  shrub,  and  savored 
those  sweet  sounds  as  shrub  soft  breezes  cool.  The  ourang-outang,  be- 
mused, his  brow  upon  his  club,  unchecked  from  nose  and  throat  dis- 
charged a  silver  drool. 

Great  numbers  of  them  came  and  all  were  charmed. 

Like  a  crumbling  crag,  with  shambling  shock  that  cadenced  broad 
hill-sides,  the  great  bear  danced.  On  a  dawn-red  rock's  outstanding  jag, 
like  a  lyre  that  is  clasped  in  the  hand  of  a  man,  like  a  lyre  that  is  strung 
with  sable  cords,  a  youthful  zebra  reared  and  pranced. 

They  came  in  multitudes  and  all  were  charmed. 

The  elephant,  all  eai-s,  allowed  the  morning  breeze  to  swell  his  mas- 
sive sail.  He  went  as  in  a  dream,  and  softly  as  a  ship  upon  a  sleeping 
stream. — The  peacock  vnth.  the  notes  unfurled  or  reefed  his  tail. 

The  proud  beasts  came,  the  timid  beasts  as  well. 

Half -fainting,  the  gazelle  seemed  lost  to  sight  and  sound,  yet  from 
her  liquid  eyes  most  happy  tear-drops  fell  imaging  forth  her  dream 
'mid  music's  spell  profound,  the  lovely,  tender,  mild  and  amorous 
gazelle. 

They  came  from  jungles  far,  from  forests  near  at  hand,  from  the 
plateau's  rich  grass  and  from  Sahara's  sand. 

Buffalo,  aurochs,  ram,  and  fabled  unicorn  pressed  in  their  zest  for 
song  huge  horn  against  huge  horn.  The  gilded  marmoset  whose  thirst 
an  orange  staunches,  the  rhythmic  strain  rehearsed  with  gently  sway- 
ing haunches. 


14       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

They  came  from  the  Orient,  they  came  from  the  Occident.  They  came 
from  everjrwhere — they  even  came  from  heaven. 

Chaplets  of  blissful  doves  on  eagles'  necks  aswoon,  bright  zones  of 
lustrous  bees  with  dark  drones  overlaid,  the  swallows'  twittering  caval- 
cade, that  transcendent  tune  had  heard.  And  that  nightmare  with  great 
eyes  astare,  the  prowling  owl,  had  left  his  lair  to  follow  the  irridescent 
flight  of  an  unreal  humming  bird. 

The  humus  and  the  sand  had  their  ambassadors. 

The  spider  and  the  crab,  wise  as  Confucius,  with  little  vitreous  eyea 
their  rival  virtues  scanned.  Locked  in  a  close  embrace  two  boas  made 
in  space  (a  sunbeam  being  at  hand)  a  giant  caduceus. 

The  stout  beasts  came,  likewise  the  slender  ones. 

0  the  air  of  the  fair  giraffe,  that  gracious,  glorious  air!  Eapt,  with 
veiled  eyes  it  listened,  gazing  on  high  where  glistened  dawn's  earliest 
blush  that  flushed  a  fleecy  cloud.  It  made  the  penguin  swear,  one  foot 
in  air,  that  ne  'er  in  all  his  life  had  he  seen  a  mien  so  sweetly  proud. 

Showers  of  rosy  spurge  watered  the  velvet  wind. 

The  beauty  of  the  slug  in  scarlet  freshness  showed,  the  shivering 
lizard  shed  an  opalescent  gleam,  in  the  bright  morning  light  a  frog  be- 
side them  glowed  and  with  this  triple  beam  a  rock  was  diamonded. 

Through  the  blue  air  they  came,  they  came  from  out  the  stones. 

In  the  pure  firmament  music  had  mobilized  the  flies,  afar  the  wasp '8 
shrill  trump  hurled  forth  its  resonant  blast.  And  over  all  the  world 
a  gentle  murmur  passed  as  though  the  Day  of  Wrath  were  done  in 
miniature. 

They  came  from  everywhere — from  the  bowels  of  the  deep. 

The  whale  himself  had  come.  His  Majesty  the  Whale,  from  the  Medi- 
terranean, his  bulk  borne  like  a  bale  by  a  bank  of  herrings,  piscatory 
ocean  freighters,  that  frisk  before  a  horde  of  glutton  alligators. 


PAUL   FORT  15 

They  were  resuscitated  from  depths  of  legend. 

The  Roc  its  black  wings  spread  from  the  gold  egg  of  the  sun,  dusking 
blue  depths  of  air  with  slow-expanding  pinions.  And,  risen  from  Hell's 
dominions,  one  saw,  a  portent  dread,  in  the  lurid  Pit's  red  glare  the 
ghost  of  Leviathan. 

They  came  from  Stygian  gulfs,  they  came  from  shining  stars,  from 
everywhere,  from  lairs  unknown  to  even  the  gods. 

But  the  lion  suddenly  growled  and  Orpheus  ceased  his  song.  They" 
had  seen  in  the  shadowy  path  that  crossed  a  sylvan  dale,  a  shepherd 
with  his  flock,  his  shepherd-do^,  his  hoi'se.  Songs  that  bewitched  the 
brutes  for  these  were  void  of  force.  No  sounds  divine  availed  with  ears 
by  commerce  dulled. 

Orpheus  dropped  his  lyre — and  the  lyre  wept. 

But  straightway  one  perceived  the  land's  whole  wealth  of  bloom, 
slower  to  yield  itself  to  the  singer's  magic  strains,  surge  o'er  the  plains, 
ascend,  and,  where  the  bare  crests  loom,  spread  'neath  the  dawn's  first 
glows  its  fresh,  eternal  snows. 

All  lyreless,  Orpheus  sang  the  beauty  of  the  flowers,  and  the  enrap- 
tured blooms,  enthralled  by  that  sweet  song,  forsook  their  parent  bough, 
vibrating  butterflies,  soon  to  recrystallise,  bright  stars  about  his  brow. 

Orpheus  grasped  his  lyre  again,  and  the  gray  rocks  wept  at  his  glad 
refrain,  jetting  the  fountains  of  their  joys  to  greet  the  accents  of  his 
voice. 

Then,  prodigy  divine,  one  saw  the  horizon  dim  sway  vnth  the  music's 
spell  its  floating,  misty  hem,  with  each  melodious  swell  uncovering  its 
mountains  and  when  the  silence  fell  again  re-covering  them. 

Orpheus  sang  this  day,  he  sang  the  sun!  And  the  heavens  listened, 
all  their  clouds  in  leash.  And  the  charmed  lightning  slept  beneath  its 
storm. 

But  violently  the  night  on  Orpheus  having  closed,  the  trees,  the  birds, 
the  mists  revealed,  with  headlong  pace  and  oscillating  flight,  unwontedly 


16       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

imposed,  that  drunk  with  song  the  world  more  swiftly  whirled  through 
space. 


From  A  PORTFOLIO  OF  SKETCHES. 

THE  LITTLE  ANNUITANT. 

He  has  departed  by  the  road,  the  poor  man,  summoning  up  such 
fortitude  as  old  men  can,  with  little  faltering  steps  counted  by  trembling 
cane,  he  has  departed.    He  will  not  come  again. 

His  constitutional  covers  no  great  distance,  the  dear  man.  Conserva- 
tive for  eighteen  hundred  years,  none  has  he  wronged,  no  enemy  he 
fears.    He  has  always  led  so  prudent  an  existence  since  Time  began. 

Two  rods  of  road  and  then  a  path  we  trace,  a  tiny  little  path,  to  re- 
conduct the  man,  the  worthy  little  man,  back  to  his  starting  place.  And 
why  should  Fate  select  as  victim  of  its  spleen  that  honest  little  man  in 
his  little  by-path  green? 

He  trudges  there,  he  coughs,  he  spits,  he  gnaws,  he  mumbles  to  him- 
self, he  blinks  applause,  content  with  all.  He  roasts  his  doddering  heart 
in  the  bright  sun's  warm  beam.  He  dreams  his  way  through  life.  He 
takes  no  part  in  strife,  and  he  is  happy  in  his  dream. 

Yes,  why  should  evil  Fate  have  grudged  felicity  to  that  good  man 
and  wished  to  do  him  wrong,  when  nothing  came  his  peace  to  mar  save 
that  he  sometimes  trudged  too  far?  Of  course  there's  death  the  icy 
breath  that  solveth  all  our  sums.  Ah,  death,  the  broad  highway,  there 
one  marches  long.  But  bah,  is  there  not  this  good  abbe  to  graft  you  on 
a  good  little  path — this  excellent  little  abbe  who  so  opportunely  comes? 

THE  VISIT  OP  DEATH. 

A  small,  pale  hand  brushes  against  the  lock,  lengthens,  and  with  one 
finger  upsets  my  sleeping-draught. 

Discreetly  a  light  foot  tiptoes  by. 

I  call. 

But  there  is  no  reply. 


PAUL  FORT  17 

Can  it  be  that  it  is  snowing  in  my  warm  room! 

Disdainfully  Death  sits  beside  my  fire,  he  waits  my  honr,  his  tower 
of  little  bones,  ranged  on  my  chair,  gleams  in  the  embers  glare  like  a 
plant  of  strawberries.  On  his  knees  a  living  toy  he  dances  that  twinkles 
and  blinks  and  gives  soft  glances. 

Tinkle  of  bells.  ...  Is  this  delirium?  Are  the  horses  there t  Has 
the  hour  for  departure  come? 

No,  'tis  Death  that  rises.  The  slim  tower  rocks.  It  is  white  and  rose 
like  a  minaret.  No,  Death  stands,  all  his  joints  he  cracks,  he  stoops  on 
a  moon-stone  his  toy  to  whet. — Good,  he  touches  my  shoulder,  calm  and 
steady. 

"My  son,  are  you  ready?" 

Inadvertently,  a  little  random  blow  of  that  glistening  plaything  sets 
my  spirit  free,  and  I  can  feel  it  go,  in  rhythmic  ecstacy,  to  wash  its  linen 
in  the  light  of  the  moon. 


THE  TWO  CLOWNS. 

— Synthetic  Clown-Clown,  hip,  hip,  whirl! 

— Six  pirouettes  blue  white,  white  blue,  it  is  the  Sky!  six  pirouettes 
blue  green,  green  blue,  it  is  the  Sea!  six  pirouettes  green  yellow,  yel- 
low green,  it  is  the  Desert!  six  pirouettes  gold  yellow,  yellow  gold,  it  is 
the  Sun! 

— ^Bravo,  bravo,  a  little  bravo,  gentlemen.  Analytic  Clown-Clown,  'tis 
your  turn.    Whirl! 

— So  be  it,  gentlemen,  let  us  resolve  things  into  their  elements.  Follow 
me  well:  Violet,  two  pirouettes,  Indigo,  three  pirouettes.  Blue,  five 
pirouettes.  Green,  two  pirouettes,  Yellow,  three  pirouettes,  Orange,  five 
pirouettes,  Red,  ten  pirouettes.     Total:  thirty  pirouettes.     Attention, 


18       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

gentlemen.    Have  a  look  at  Noah's  rainbow.  .  .  .  Two  three  five,  two 
three  five  ten,  rrrrrrran ! 

— Stop,  Analytic,  stop,  enough  I  say!    He  is  going  to  burst.  .  .  .  Good 
God!  ...  Ah! 

Synthetic  writhes  and  then,  in  the  tan-bark  of  the  ring,  writes  with  a 
thumb  profound  this  sombre  epitaph : 

Here  lies 

ANALYTIC 

this  clown  reputed  sage 

— quite  insane 

and  dead  of  rage 

that  he  could  not  whirl  a  hurricane. 


MOUNTAIN 

FOEEST— PLAIN— SEA. 

1898. 

IMAGES  OF  MY  DREAMS. 

The  wooded  hill  o'ershades  the  river's  placid  brim  and  in  its  tranquil 
depths  still  further  slopes  one  sees.  The  dusky  half  reflects  a  forest, 
green  and  dim,  its  azure  counterpart,  the  clouds'  profundities. 

Here  sails  the  little  skiff  of  cloudy  pearl,  and  there,  not  far  removed, 
a  raft  of  branches  slowly  rides.  .  .  .  Sudden  beneath  my  eyes  the  surges 
of  a  weir  whelm  sail  and  raft.    Dull  mist  the  troubled  mirror  hides. 

Images  of  my  dreams,  is  this  your  shipwreck  drear,  raft,  wandering 
sail,  to  find  your  harbor  in  the  wave,  black  vision,  vision  blue,  broken 
upon  the  weir,  by  foaming  billows  drowned  and  mingled  in  the  grave? 

The  wooded-hill  o'ershades  the  river's  placid  brim.  On  the  other 
bank  gold  buttercups  sway.  In  the  stormy  sky  cold  lightning-flashes 
pierce  the  gathering  cloud-wrack  grim.  .  .  .  And  still  more  images  will 
come,  alas,  to  diet 


PAUL   FORT  19 

IN  THE  WOOD. 
A  brooklet  flows  beneath  the  vaulted  wood. 

Between  the  mosses  emerald  pale,  lianas  frail  pursue  its  song,  others 
enshroud  its  bed  with  shadows  moist  and  blue ;  a  dead  birch  huddles  on 
its  bank;  the  scarab  beetles  o'er  it  skim.  Fallen  birch  leaves,  tinged 
with  red,  choke  that  channel  dank  and  dim.  Among  the  mosses  a  vnld 
and  lonely  thought  fixes  my  dream  with  its  minute  regard.  .  .  . 

Why,  0  my  God,  should  things  that  are  so  small  (a  brooklet  flows 
beneath  the  vaulted  wood)  wuth  their  little  life  of  moving  shadow  call 
this  horrible  despair  to  dusk  my  mood? — Is  it  because  of  this  monoto- 
nous song  of  a  current  almost  stifled  in  its  bed,  or  of  these  things  that 
seem  a  phantom  throng,  their  sleep  with  endless  sorrow  overspread, 
is  it  because  of  life  that  is  so  brief,  thinking  how  strait  and  narrow  is 
our  world,  that  I  should  see  no  cause  for  death's  reprieve,  nor  any  rea- 
son why  mankind  was  born,  save  that  beyond  the  border  of  the  wood, 
like  some  clear  beacon-fire  by  Nature  set,  like  a  summons  of  this  world 
to  light  and  joy,  there  shines  the  vivid  green  of  growing  corn? 

A  brooklet  flows  beneath  the  vaulted  wood. 

EVENING  CLOUDS. 

The  hour  has  made  transparent  mountains  of  ruddy  cloud.  Upon 
the  fruitful  plain  there  is  no  fairer  hour.  Dissohnng  topaz  clouds  let 
fall  a  golden  shower.  The  evening  wind,  pursues,  and  guides  them  home 
again. 

The  setting  sun  strikes  in  their  flight  bright  birds,  all  the  birds  of 
the  day,  and  'tis  an  ardent  and  a  golden  rain  glancing  across  the  surge 
of  gently  swaying  grain. 

The  setting  sun  and  the  wind  have  fused  their  charms  divine,  in  twi- 
light's crucible  colour  and  scent  combine. 

Far  from  the  dying  sun,  through  depths  of  stainless  air,  an  Oriental 
pageant  glides.     Long,  bleeding  rubies  deck  an  emperor  beneath  the 


20       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

balancing  of  tall,  gold  parasols.  Behind,  a  mighty  people,  clothed  all  in 
violet  pale,  sway  at  the  tips  of  slender  golden  wands  lanterns  whereon 
are  limned,  in  characters  of  silver,  the  poppies  of  sleep. 

Have  you  seen  the  talons  of  the  Night  go  past?  In  the  wind  she  also 
was  of  gold.  .  .  .  And  already  the  birds  are  sleeping  on  the  plain,  the 
ruddy  heads  of  the  grain  are  bowed  in  slumber,  and  the  broad  moon 
awakes. 


HYMN  TO  THE  SEA. 

Great  Sea,  too  much  have  fools  impugned  your  empire's  might,  boast- 
ing your  random  powers  in  mutual  combat  fight!  Great  Sea,  whose 
flashing  fire  and  roaring  bolts  are  hurled  when  you  would  fain  reflect 
the  turmoil  of  the  world ! 

Ah,  do  your  thoughts  recall  of  storied  Greece  or  Rome  the  fleets  en- 
gulfed like  lead  to  rest  beneath  your  foam?  Before  and  since  that  day 
where  sail  man's  swift  triremes?  The  Argo,  Spanish  galleons,  gone  like 
forgotten  dreams, 

the  shattered  galleys,  bent  above  your  mirror's  gloom,  which,  with 
uplifted  prow,  were  sucked  beneath  your  flood?  The  ships  submerged, 
once  more  your  mirrors,  filled  with  blood,  united,  of  great  names  the  all- 
effacing  tomb. 

Can  nothing  mortal.  Sea,  afford  the  life  you  crave  and  calm  the  thirst 
for  heaven  of  your  drunk  mirrors  vast?  Is  it  the  Other  World  you  most 
reflect  at  last  to  appease  the  bounding  glass  of  your  insatiate  wave? 

'Tis  at  the  heaven's  high  verge  that  tempests  tire  and  cease,  upreared 
like  soaring  Hope  in  the  trembling  azure  air.  'Tis  when,  at  the  planet's 
call,  towards  the  white  clouds  you  fare  that,  in  reflecting  them,  you 
dream  of  love  and  peace. 

In  freshets  of  the  Spring,  flood  your  confining  bars,  and  through  pale 
wastes  of  space  mount  frenziedly  on  high  to  where  the  sea  of  Chaos, 
on  far  shores  of  the  sky,  deposits  evermore  the  infinite  salt  of  stars. 


PAUL   FORT  21 

HYMN  TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THESE  HYlilNS. 

O'er  realms  of  song  an  uncrowned  King  all  things  beneath  the  snn  I 
sing.  I  have  sung  the  seasons,  the  hills,  the  sea,  my  joyous  moods,  my 
cloudy  woes.  I  have  sung  the  calm  serenity  that  from  the  forest  flows. 
Since  life  began  all  things  I've  proved,  all  things  have  suffered,  all 
things  loved.  0  'er  realms  of  song  an  uncrowned  King  all  things  beneath 
the  sun  I  sing. 

Ah,  I  have  sung  in  admirable  phrase  when  I  could  raise  in  air,  free, 
my  two  hands  to  the  sun.  My  voice  has  read  the  glorious  symbols  drawn 
in  an  unknown  and  mystic  book  of  prayer.  From  my  lips  and  from 
my  heart  imperious,  soaring  echoes  start  from  the  hid  and  secret  ways. 
Ah,  I  have  sung  in  admirable  phrase  when  I  could  raise  in  air,  free,  my 
two  hands  to  the  sun. 

All  I  have  hymned,  I  have  sung  the  golden  sun,  ogive  of  brightness 
set  in  the  infinite  of  the  skies,  the  winged  dawn  with  shimmering  rays 
that  flit  from  hedge  to  hedge,  aurora,  one  great  rose  above  the  glim- 
mering wood,  the  noon's  red  glows  that  tint  the  air  with  glints  of 
ripened  fruit,  and  the  silver  moon  that  rocks  the  dream  of  night.  All 
things  composed  my  song.  I  have  sung  the  light.  In  the  harmony  of 
eve  I  have  sung  the  infinite. 

But  what  I  sang  with  faith  most  free  from  base  alloy,  what  I  have 
understood  with  the  profoundest  joy,  is  your  deep  calm,  your  solitary 
heart,  enchanted  wood!  It  is  your  shade,  your  shade,  your  shade,  0 
dreaming  wood!  .  .  . 


THE  STORY  OF  LOUIS  XI. 

1898. 

Extracts  from  Book  I. 

Louis  XI,  Curious  Man. 

EN  ROUTE  FOR  GLORY  AND  ECONOMY. 

In  tlie  room  of  the  ivriter.   Tlie  writer  exclaims  thus: 

Louis  XI,  for  trifles  fain,  I  love  you,  curious  man.    Dear  chafferer  in 
chestnuts,  astutely  did  you  plan  to  pluck  the  chestnuts  of  fair  Bur- 


22       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

gundy!  You  seemed  all  friendliness  and  courtesy.  Your  hood  was 
hung  with  images  of  lead  and  copper  medals.  Watchers  would  have 
said  your  pious  thoughts  were  fixed  on  things  above.  Sudden  you 
stooped,  your  long  arms  outward  drove.  Gently,  not  even  ruffling  your 
sleek  glove,  you  filched  a  chestnut,  another,  half  a  dozen,  beneath  the 
menacing  gauntlet  of  your  cousin. 

But  if  by  chance  he  let  his  great  fists  fall  upon  your  back,  your 
scrawny  back,  you  roared  with  laughter  and  his  stolen  goods  restored. 
'Twas  but  an  empty  shell.  Void  were  the  chestnuts  all.  Your  gentle 
industry  served  your  fortunes  well. 

So  I,  good  singer,  sage  of  little  worth,  pilfer  both  heaven  and  earth, 
provinces  of  my  brain,  under  the  hands  of  the  Lord,  all  light.  I  deftly 
pull  from  his  fingers  the  roses  of  the  dawn,  the  rings  of  the  storm, 
the  lilies  of  starry  nights  and  gain  little  ineffable  images,  a  heap  of 
shining  things  stored  up  beneath  my  skull. 

To  filch  by  slow  degrees  but  sure,  sweet  Louis  XI,  0  man  most  rare} 
May  God,  good  politician,  0  rare  among  the  Louis,  hold  you  in  His  good 
care  and  as,  in  days  of  old,  when  you  were  pleased,  your  favorite  grey- 
hound stretched  beneath  your  breeches,  mildly  to  judge  by  that  grateful 
warmth  appeased,  beneath  His  golden  slippers  in  Paradise  may  you  be, 
blest  little  King  at  rest.  His  most  fervent  counsellor. 

And,  for  having  praised  you,  counter  to  my  teachers,  and  with  all 
candour  having  kept  your  law,  when  the  day  of  my  doom  is  at  hand, 
when  I,  in  my  turn,  shall  stand  awaiting  judgment  at  the  bar  above, 
pluck  at  God's  robe  that  he  place  me  in  His  love. 


Here  Commences  the  Story  of  Louis  XI. 

When  good  Pierre  Crolavoine  and  Jean  Le  Damoisel,  followed  with 
furry  pace  by  all  the  parliament,  in  the  lurid  flaring  of  two  hundred 
torches,  had  enriched  the  basilique  of  Saint  Denis  with  one  more  royal 
body,  when  Charles  Seventh  was  laid  beside  Charles  Sixth  and  each  sad 
rite  was  consummated  with  all  due  ceremony. 

Then  when  this  was  noised  abroad,  set  down  in  history,  honestly  cried 
through  all  the  provinces,  that  a  prince  had  perished  in  the  Realm  of 
France,  when  'twas  well  averred  that  they  had  buried  him,  tranquilly 


PAUL    FORT  23 

agile  the  worthy  dauphin  Louis  slipped  back  again  from  exile  with  the 
dream  of  reconciling  economy  and  glory. 


Silvering  earth  with  the  lustre  of  all  his  chivalry,  inheritor  of  Flan- 
ders and  heir  to  Burgundy,  called  the  Terror  of  the  world.  Count  Charles 
of  Charolais,  preceding  his  cousin,  impetuously  towards  Paris  urged  his 
way. 

With  more  sympathetic  grace,  at  a  mournful  little  pace,  the  proper 
lullaby  sad  musings  to  efface,  making  that  journey  hard  in  a  manner 
fair  to  see,  twenty  Burgundians  for  guard,  Louis  came  back  from  Bur- 
gundy. In  panoply  of  black  and  bro^vn,  perched  on  a  black  and  yellow 
mare,  perceiving  Rheims  upon  his  road  it  was  his  whim  to  sojourn  there, 
in  honor  of  that  ancient  town  graciously  there  his  tour  to  break  and  lay 
his  pilgrim's  burden  dowTi  for  such  a  space  as  it  would  take  to  conse- 
crate a  royal  heir,  letting  the  folk  rich  feasts  prepare,  ambrosial 
breakfasts,  savory  suppers,  since  Charles's  father  paid,  elate  with 
princely  prodigality,  his  ancient  uncle  of  Burgundy  who  followed  him, 
in  ducal  state, — white  beard  and  violent  in  the  wind  beneath  his  pennon, 
and  behind  a  thousand  staunch  Burgundian  troopers. 

Three  days  from  summer's  hoard  each  pelted  each  with  flowers,  while 
Rheimsian  Bacchus  poured  his  fiery-hearted  powers.  Long  they  recount 
those  hours  'neath  the  ogive  and  the  thatch.  And  long  through  fair 
Champagne,  bald  of  the  fur  of  hares,  the  forests  of  Ardennes,  all  virgin 
of  wild  boars,  the  vacant  field  and  fen  no  sustenance  affords  to  the  poach- 
ers'  sharp-eyed  watch. 


Nevertheless  King  Louis,  now  no  more  to  be  Louis  as  before,  a  King 
without  a  Kingdom,  yet  a  King  I  trow,  without  a  weight  more  royal  his 
good  mare's  back  to  bow,  after  this  brief  cessation  resumed  the  rocking 
gait  of  his  gentle  canter  slow,  so  justly  iodine  to  his  silent  meditation. 

— King  without  a  Kingdom,  true  King,  though,  none  the  less.  ...  A 

doleful  destiny !  he  thought  with  heaviness. 

— In  his  own  land  to  seem  a  little  exiled  King.  .  .  .  Ah,  bitter  Ib  my 

cup !    Such  was  his  sombre  dream. 

— Behind,  my  uncle  fell,  my  cousin  bold  before.  .  .  .  Portable  prison 

cell 


24       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

— My  wits  are  growing  dull,  I  ween.  By  the  Risen  Christ,  if  in  my  do- 
main my  kinsmen  have  a  conquering  mien  and  for  the  scepter  seem  full 
fain.  Eeflect,  good  dauphin  Louis  .  .  .  no,  Louis  Eleventh!  I  mistake. 
For  whom  does  yonder  barley  grow  ?  Whose  thirst  will  those  fat  melons 
slake  ? — That  of  their  owners. — If  I  take  and  hang  them  ? — Straight  their 
crops  revert  to  the  King!  So  Gallic  laws  assert. — Where  sprouts  the 
grain  ?  Good  uncle,  say ! — Fair  nephew,  where  but  in  the  earth  ? — And 
the  melons  grow  in  heaven,  eh? — ^No,  similarly. — That  thing  of  mirth,  a 
King  without  a  Kingdom !  Fie !  What  man  presumed  to  say  it  ?  I  ?  Not 
more  dull,  your  Lordship,  than  M^as  my  sire,  the  late  Charles  Seventh, 
(may  God  above  embrace  him  in  eternal  love  and  pardon  the  son  that 
stirred  his  ire,  yet  no  gall  in  the  royal  goblet  mixed  that  he  poured  not 
himself  in  the  cup  of  Charles  Sixth)  who  said  to  you,  "Brother,  what 
manner  of  thing  should  you  say  that  I  am?"  "You  are  the  King!" — 
but  he  who  suavely  thus  replied  either  had  some  after-thought  or  lied. 

And  suddenly,  more  light,  loosing  his  bridle  rein  to  a  rattling  pace 
that  rendered  sore  profane  more  than  one  gentle  Knight  who  dallied  in 
the  race  left  to  his  OAvn  devices,  slow  ambling  to  refresh  his  tongue  with 
generous,  juicy  slices  of  melons,  fresh-cut  from  the  vine  beneath  a  burn- 
ing sun  * :  "Bah,  if  a  dupe  I  be  I  conquer  Paris  still,  if  Uncle  Burgundy, 
complacent,  pays  the  bill,  and  gives  me  all  Gaul  free!"  Then  stroking 
his  palfry  (his  mare  you  opine),  "My  cousin  may  shine  for  his  King  in 
the  tourney.  What  matter  to  me !  But  three  Kings  ?  Two  too  many ! ' ' 
Such  were  the  thoughts  that  day  of  dauphin  Louis,  nay,  of  the  King  I 
wish  to  say. 


A  sunken  road  in  hriglit  sun- 
ligJit.  The  King  makes  a 
grimace.  BeMnd  Jiim,  Jiis  valet 
savours  a  delicious  melon. 

— "By  the  Risen  Christ,  *it  is  hot!    Philippe  Pot,  a  slice.'  .  .  .  Come 
hither,  gentle  spirit,  talk  with  your  King.    Although  you  spring  from 

*  Whoever  has  crossed   Champagne  in  the  heart   of   summer   will   not  blame 
them.— P.  F. 


PAUL   FORT  25 

humble  stock  I  know  your  merit.  I  love  you,  Philippe  Pot,  you  love  to 
whisper  low. — ^What  do  you  think  of  that  ancient  fox  who  follows  my 
journey's  course? 

— That  he  is  old,  and  too  old  a  fox  has  only  half  his  force. 
— And  of  that  gallant  crimson  lion  who  goes  in  front  of  me  ? 
■ — He  has  pride  to  sell.  .  .  . 
— 'Tissold! 

— And  therewith  the  taint  of  treachery. 

• — That  I  '11  repay,  believe  me,  giving  him  guile  for  guile.    Paris  is  weary 
of  wars.    I  think  'twill  scarcely  smile  upon  my  martial  cousin. 
— Paris?    Ah,  who  can  say  what  it  loved  yesteryear?    "What  it  will  love 
to-day  .  ,  . 

— Well  said!  I  shall  Paris 's  proxy  be  and  love  what  it  will  love  to- 
morrow. You,  I  love  you,  Philippe  Pot.  Since  from  no  books  you  bor- 
row your  wit,  you  talk  well.  By  the  Risen  Christ,  a  scorching  heat! 
Philippe  Pot,  a  slice.  .  .  .  Attend!  and  retain.  Draw  near,  'tis  a  mys- 
tery nefarious,  a  clanking  skeleton  grim,  the  lid  of  whose  coffin  should 
be  clapped  well  on!  It  concerns  our  cousin.  Know  that  a  secret  here 
is  hid — where  are  you  looking? — here!  'Tis  this.  It  doth  appear 
Charles  the  Terrible  should  be  changed  to  Charles  the  Temerarious !  . .  " 
So  saying,  he  tapped  his  brow,  sooth  to  say,  with  the  slice  of  melon. 

And  this  gesture,  soon  made  current  with  commentaries  gay,  thanks 
to  that  babbler  arrant,  Philippe  Pot,  who  looked  so  sage,  gained  more 
than  his  madness  stark  for  good  Charles  the  Sixth  had  won,  more  than 
the  Maid,  Jeanne  D'Arc,  accomplished  for  his  son,  as  much,  should 
we  wish  indeed  to  pry  through  history's  page  and  read  of  times  afar, 
as,  in  a  later  age,  with  victories  or  without,  the  paleness  of  a  plume  for 
King  Henry  of  Navarre,  the  eclat  of  a  jet-black  steed  with  a  stratagem 
blond  to  pair, — this  gesture  debonair  put  prejudice  to  rout,  dispelled 
suspicion's  gloom  till  the  chronicler  attests  even  Burgundian  breasts 
bore  witness  to  the  fame  of  this  Louix  Rex,  so  like  the  rest,  eleventh 
monarch  to  bear  that  name. 


Red  and  gold  in  the  night  before  them  Paris  glowed. 

— Look  more  closely,  uncle  dear,  if  that  enfant  terrible  of  yours  make^ 
no  sign,  the  sign  is  good. 


26       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

But  this  crimson  and  this  gold  were  the  blossoms  of  a  fete,  the  banners 
and  the  flames,  'mid  the  rocket's  soaring  fire,  were  the  flaring  torches 
gold,  the  banners  and  the  flowers  that  Paris,  that  good  city,  waved  to- 
wards her  royal  sire. 

— Did  you  ever  taste,  good  uncle,  a  sweeter  summer  night? 
— An  odor  honey-sweet  blown  from  the  stars  there  came.    Through  skies 
o'erlaid  with  gold  the  blue  stars  took  their  flight.    And  they,  the  stars, 
were  a  swarm  of  bright  bees  flying  fleet  with  blue,  adoring  wings  round 
a  lily's  golden  flame. 

— Ah,  gentle  presages  of  the  summer  night !    From  a  height  of  the  moon, 
dear  uncle,  bright  beams  of  hope  are  sent.  .  .  . 

— "Why,  hoity  toity,  nephew!    Hope  did  I  hear  you  say?    Does  aught 
obstruct  your  way  ?    Are  you  not  quite  content  ? 

Softly  the  King  of  France  began  to  whistle  a  non-committal  air, — ^while 
Luna  about  his  tattered  hood  ran  a  silver  hem  of  moonlight  fair. 


THE    ENTRANCE    INTO   ROUEN    OF    CHARLES    THE    BOLD. 

Counts,  barons,  captains,  chevaliers,  all  gentlemen  of  lineage  high, 
and,  proudest  of  the  Frankish  peers,  the  greatest,  the  most  glorious  one 
with  whom  no  lesser  light  might  vie,  brave  Charles  of  Charolais,  eclips- 
ing all  the  rest,  on  a  day  when  pure  the  azure  shone  and  bells  were 
ringing  into  Rouen,  that  goodly  city  pressed.  And  'twas  sweet  pleasure 
to  behold  casques  and  cuirasses  all  ashine  and  gleaming  housings  mani- 
fold, bright  housings  cut  from  cloth  of  gold  or  velvet  edged  with  ermine 
fine,  while  some  pure  damask  did  combine  with  fur  of  sable,  and  some, 
(God  wot  their  cost  was  high),  all  of  gold  were  wrought;  and  'twas 
sweet  pleasure  to  behold  the  scurrying  pages,  children  fair,  most  richly 
dressed,  and,  dancing  there,  before  that  lordly  legislature,  rude  peasants 
in  a  state  of  nature  and  lovely  women  nude,  and,  whirling  'mid  the 
horses'  hoofs  dwarfs,  pink,  red,  green,  and  maidens,  too,  in  rustic  coifs 
and  o'er  the  roofs  to  see  the  floating  standards  bine  sprinkled  with 
golden  stars,  and  gules,  where,  sable,  a  rampant  lion  cools  his  wrath, 
that  with  banners  all  white  were  blent,  and,  from  the  cathedral's  sacred 
fount,  in  incensed  pomp,  across  the  square  to  see  the  violet  clergy  mount 


PAUL   FORT  27 

King  Louis  to  hail,  the  envoy  pale,  of  so  grand  a  count,  of  so  grand  a 
count,*  and  the  blue  sky  laughed  through  belfries  high,  all  the  bells  rang 
out  with  joy  or  pain,  how  the  gun-butts  shone,  how  the  lances  gleamed! 
.  .  .  'Twas  sweet  pleasure  to  Avatch  the  crimson  rain  of  jetting  foun- 
tains where  sweet  wine  streamed,  hypocras,  that  all  the  assemblage 
quaffed :  and,  naked,  on  a  scantling  stage,  three  sirens  like  Eve  in  Para- 
dise, that  played  on  lutes  sweet,  grave  and  rare,  suave  and  imperial 
melodies;  squires,  on  the  great  bridge  o'er  the  Seine,  unhooded  ouselets 
painted  blue  and  scattered  all  the  city  through  one  could  find  a  thou- 
sand pleasures  more  that  cost  full  many  a  louis  d  'or. 

And  then  it  was  that  the  turn  of  the  tourney  came. 

Charles,  in  black  armour  dressed,  where  glinted  golden  fires,  lajdng  his 
lance  in  rest  cried,  ''For  the  King,  messires!"  and  on  his  war-horse 
good  he  rode  with  headlong  force  towards  stout  Jean  des  Moulins,  erect 
upon  his  horse.    Mighty  the  onset  was.    Sonorous  was  the  shock. 

Alas,  Sir  Jean,  alas!    He  fell  as  falls  a  block. 

Whereat  one  saw  the  strong  shudders  of  grief  that  ran  through  all 
the  seated  throng  in  hennin,  scarf  or  fan,  and,  as  in  dreams,  one  heard 
a  hum  as  when  hives  are  stirred  that  many  lips  prolong  to  a  faint  and 
sibilant  breeze,  the  flattering  buzz  of  hushed  applause  through  all  the 
galleries. 


JOACHIM. 


The  night  glides,  chill  and  murk,  through  Paris.  In  its  shades  two 
trembling  shadows  lurk,  two  meagre  little  shades  that  shiver  frigidly, 
then  glide  away  through  the  dark. 

— Sweet  Sire,  I  have  sworn.    This  night  we  must  depart. 
~'Tis  well,  but  follow,  follow. 

From  little  street  to  little  street  two  little,  meagi-e  shades  stir  in  the 
cold, — ^then  stop. 

There,  before  a  half-buried  hovel,  a  voice,  a  little  voice,  faintly  acrid, 
bitter-sweet,  a  little  voice  that  steeps  itself  in  tears. 
— I  am  neither  lion  nor  wolf  nor  fox.    I  am  a  man.    Croy,  gently  knock 
at  that  door  and  call,  "Dame  Simonne  of  the  chains!" 

*  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Louis  XI,  wishing  to  keep  away  from  Charles  the  Bold, 
was  not  a  member  of  the  party. 


28       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

— Dame  Simonne  of  the  chains ! 

— Good.  Listen!  Listen!  .  .  .  Ask  if  yesterday  some  member  of  her 
household  did  not  die. 

— Dame  Simonne,  was  Death  here  yesterday? 

— Alas,  sweet  Lord,  then  you  have  heard,  you  also.  My  son  Joachim, 
my  son,  last  night. 

— I  am  neither  lion  nor  wolf  nor  fox.  I  am  a  man.  Croy,  aid  me,  com- 
fort me!  Joachim!  .  .  .  Croy!  I  am  neither  lion  nor  wolf  nor  fox, 
being  all  three.  Croy,  I'm  a  man.  Adieu,  0  little  being!  .  .  .  Joa- 
chim !  Come.  So  be  it !  Let  us  go.  Dame  Simonne  has  been  to  me  .  .  . 
Dame  Simonne  was  to  me  .  .  .  Croy,  I  am  human.  Croy,  I  weep  a  little 
life  .  .  .  Joachim!    Alas!  .  .  .  my  little  child.  .  .  . 

Night,  thick  and  cold  and  murk,  through  Paris  glides,  one  spies  two 
little  meagre  shades  that  slide  and  sway  in  the  dark.  ...  0  that  little 
voice,  steeped  in  tears,  steeped  in  tears.  ...  0  those  little  broken 
cries ! 


Extracts  from  Book  II. 
The  League. 


THE  PITEOUS  BATTLE  OF  MONT-L'HfiRY. 
After  many  a  round-about  they  encountered  man  to  man. 

Broached  casks  being  trundled  out,  archers  to  drink  began  (this  on 
both  sides  of  the  line)  preparedness  their  plan,  ("To  guard  oneself 
from  funk  in  the  deadly  breach,"  they'd  say,  ''  'tis  best  to  start  the 
day  by  getting  slightly  drunk.") 

Proud  Burgundy's  left  wing  messire  Saint  Pol  commands,  while  on 
the  right  wing  stands  the  Count  of  Charolais.  On  the  right  wing  of 
France  rides  the  King  while  on  t'other  wing  is  discrete  Messire  de 
Main.    The  battle  is  complete. 

Between  those  serried  files  the  chateau  Mont-L'Hery  perched  on  a 
little  height  half-smiles,  ambiguously. 


PAUL    FORT  29 

My  God,  from  these  lips  released  shall  there  sound  no  trumpet's 
swell?    Archers,  their  thirst  appeased,  joined  battle.    It  is  well. 

Count  Charles  of  Charolais,  advancing  with  his  right  against  the  left 
of  France,  routed  Messire  de  Main  who,  being  forced  to  fly,  still  flies 
across  the  plain. 

King  Louis  with  his  right  thrusting  against  St.  Pol  who,  as  these 
lines  recite,  formed  Burgundy's  left,  beheld  Saint  Pol  and  all  his  men, 
swifter  than  partridges  that  hurtle  down  the  breeze,  despatched  in  head- 
long flight  from  out  our  story's  ken,  not  choosing  to  be  killed. 

Louis  Eleventh  and  Charolais,  each  one  sure  of  the  victory,  from  his 
place,  as  I  scarcely  need  to  say,  rubbed  hands  together  full  gleefully. 

Towards  the  centre  of  the  fray  doth  each  in  turn  I'epair. 

And  what  did  they  see? — Alas!    Sheer  emptiness  was  there. 

Their  zealous  knights,  having  watched  the  combat  and  seen  the  fugi- 
tive crowds  that  pressed  rearward  both  to  the  east  and  west,  to  the 
defeat  having  taken  oath,  followed  their  comrades,  nothing  loth,  slipping 
away  without  drum  or  trumpet.  And  on  the  embattled  plain  the  princes 
twain  remain. 

Alone?  Not  wholly  so.  The  chateau  Mont-L'Hery  (chateaux  have 
got  no  legs  so  far  as  one  can  see  or  if  they  o^vn  such  things  they  tread 
upon  the  air),  that  warrior  battle-scarred,  no  more  content  to  wear  its 
demi-smile,  in  the  face  of  such  unsoldierly  gyrations,  grunted  its  con- 
tumely from  attic  to  foundations. 
— Left  alone,  though,  none  the  less. 

To  such  a  point  that,  by  all  the  press  of  living  men  being  quite  for- 
saken, Louis  Eleventh,  that  gallant  Frenchman,  and  Charles  of  Charolais, 
his  henchman  (loving  each  other  passing  well),  the  fair  occasion  might 
have  taken  on  this  sweet  summer  morn  to  cry  (with  gesturing  hands 
the  more  to  tell  their  mutual  trust  and  amity),  "Why,  what  a  welcome 
meeting!    Sweet  coz,  a  cordial  greeting!" 

'     But  each,  alas!  in  deadly  fear  rearward  pell-mell  did  ride  as  though 
he  saw  some  knacker  near  hankering  for  his  hide. 

The  truth  I  tell,  whate'er  betide. 


30       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Yet  at  that  selfsame  hour  approximately  (for  pray  what  in  the  sight 
of  God  is  the  space  of  an  hour?  of  a  day?  a  month?  a  year? — a  year, 
why,  one  may  well  declare  that  for  God  'tis  the  twink  of  time  that 
'twould  take  to  eat  a  pear),  then  at  that  selfsame  hour  Earl  Warwick, 
who  had  planned,  with  Lancaster  for  liege,  Fame's  portals  to  unlock, 
in  an  Homeric  shock  twixt  ten  thousand  Englishmen,  unhappily  was 
slain  by  Edward's  baleful  hand;  in  Spain,  John  Second,  intent  to  purge 
that  princely  paragon,  Carlos,  in  whose  proud  breast  the  seeds  of  treason 
stir,  at  one  blow  despatched  two  thousand  grandees  of  Arragon;  the 
fierce  Mohammed  Second,  Ottoman  emperor,  put  a  brusque  end  to  the 
oldest  of  the  old  world,  terror-stunned,  with  one,  titanic  cimetar  stroke 
destroying  Trebizond:  of  Greeks  and  Turks  a  greater  horde  unshriven 
went  to  Jesus  than  the  gold  doubloons  in  cellar  stored  not  by  Louis 
Eleventh,  but  Croesus;  avenging  Venice,  more  bloody  than  a  heart,  her 
scaffold  watered  with  those  inquisitors  malign  who  long  in  safety  slaugh- 
tered; briefly,  in  England,  Spain,  Venice,  Asia,  one  beheld  a  greater 
tide  of  gore  upon  the  green  earth  spilled  than  at  IMont-l'Hery,  what  do 
I  say?  than  in  France,  known  for  knightly  deeds,  and  more  famous 
cavaliers  dig  spurs  in  flying  steeds. 

None  the  less  in  no  flattering  sense  'tis  meant. 

"By  the  Risen  Christ!"  quoth  the  King,  content  to  regain  the  lines 
he  had  left  that  morning,  "this  warning  is  opportunely  sent.  Upon 
my  scutcheon's  fame  a  shameful  blot  'twould  fix,  with  clashing  steel  to 
vent  the  broils  of  politics."  And  to  himself  he  smiles,  "Success  will 
swell  my  sails  if  against  cunning  wiles  brute  strength  no  more  pre- 
vails!"— Wlien  his  attendants  came  by  his  chaplet's  beads  beguiled  he 
blessed  the  Holy  Name,  most  happy  and  most  mild. 


Extracts  from  Book  III. 
Master  Oliver  Le  Dain. 


SOUNDS  OF  BELLS  AND  OF  PRECIOUS   STONES. 
Bruges.    Palace  of  tJie  Duke  of  Burgundy,  June  IStJi,  1467. 
The  old  duke  Philip  died  one  night  in  the  arms  of  his  jesters  three. 
A  thousand  follies  did  he  recite  of  Charles  the  Seventh's  court,  then,  in 
full  cry,  stopped  short, — and  paling  suddenly. 


PAUL   FORT  31 

— ^**If  you  love  me,  gentle  sirs,  ring  all  your  bells,"  said  he.  "To 
man's  eternal  home  I  think  God  summons  me.  My  life's  iniquity  to 
you  I  now  confess  and  my  latest  words  as  well,  a  web  of  groundless  lies. 
Good  Jehanne  of  Lorraine  'mongst  men  loved  Charles  the  most  but,  of 
this  be  well  advised,  mistress  she  ne'er  has  been  save  to  King  Jesus 
Christ." 
Then  bowed  his  head  and  rendered  up  the  ghost. 

Tinkling  their  bells  most  mournfully  (glide,  glide,  pointed  shoe), 
through  many  a  vacant  corridor  filed  the  Jesters  three,  straining  on 
tiptoe,  one  finger  in  air. 

They  stopped  at  every  open  door.  "Monsieur  de  Commines!  Mon- 
sieur de  Commines!"  they  whispered.  Never  a  voice  replied.  "No 
buffoon  can  A\ath  Death  compare,"  one  of  the  three  fools  sighed. 

From  attic  to  cellar  their  way  they  wended,  from  cellar  to  attic  re- 
ascended.  All  was  deserted.  No.  The  moon  followed  their  search 
from  room  to  room.  From  window  to  window  they  saw  her  glide.  ' '  She 
mocks  us  with  that  steady  stare,"  one  of  the  three  fools  sighed. 

On  the  towers  to  the  East,  to  the  "West,  to  the  South,  one  tom-cat, 
two  tom-cats,  three  tom-cats  screech.  Miaou-oo!  Miaou-oo!  Long  live 
lean  tom-cats  and  lean  fools,  too! — "Nothing  can  make  the  moon  di- 
gress, ' '  one  of  the  three  fools  sighed. 

On  the  tiles  of  the  tower  that  is  toward  the  North  since  that  night  no 
tom-cat  ventures  forth.  There  the  good  duke  defunct  doth  too  often 
rove  to  shine  the  moon  with  his  golden  glove. — scrip !  scrap !  the  better 
to  light  his  drinking,  much  having  striven,  the  storms  in  his  casque — 
scrip !  scrap !  the  better  to  light  his  drinking.  .  .  . 
— "Do  our  wits  begin  to  craze?"  muttered  that  trio  of  fools.  All  the 
world  is  at  Liege,  and  monseigneur  Charles. 

But  thinking  this  they  erred. 

For  a  chronicler,  'tis  plain,  that  in  fools  to  put  belief  is  to  take  the 
flooding  rain  for  a  pocket-handkerchief. 

In  truth,  monseigneur  Charles,  adroitly  insinuated  into  a  cabinet's 
black  recess,  since  dawn  had  w^atched  and  waited,  hid  from  the  heaven 's 
clear  gaze  to  pry  through  the  key-hole's  chink  with  his  great  blue  eye. 
Curled  in  that  snug  and  secret  nook  he  had  seen  the  last  grimace  at  the 
world  on  the  face  of  the  aged  duke. 

And  when  our  trio  of  fools,  as  dawn  made  bright  the  east  (poor 
bumpkins  that  they  were),  after  all  this  futile  pother,  reclimbed  the 


32       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

spiral  stair  to  the  room  of  the  late  deceased,  what  sight  confronts  them 
there?  .  .  .  monseigneur  Charles  tenderly  weeping  before  the  duke  his 
father. 

Low  in  the  dust  he  kneeled,  with  frantic  pantomime  pardon  for  his 
misdeeds  imploring.  He  besought  a  parting  benediction,  alas !  from  that 
good  aged  duke  so  rigidly  congealed,  his  breast  still  arrogant  with  store 
of  jewels  rare,  gems  that  he  left  to  sing  'neath  the  fingers  of  his  heir. 

But  never  a  word  replied  the  good  old  gaffer,  and  for  cause. 

In  costly  velvet  clad,  cuirassed  with  a  scintillating  AUadin's  treasure, 
for  three  days  now  he  had  tasted  scarcely  a  morsel  of  food,  starved  to 
death  like  a  beggar,  perishing  of  hunger,  in  a  happy  vision  of  angels, 
of  bells  and  precious  stones. 

So,  while  grim  tocsins  through  belfried  Bruges  clanged  the  hoarse 
fanfare  that  calls  to  war  and,  in  the  morning's  cloudy  air  an  armed 
host  wakened,  their  souls  on  fire  with  the  gentle  hope  that  they  soon 
might  go  to  sack  Liege  with  savage  glee,  ravage  and  loot  to  their  hearts* 
desire  till  the  very  walls  should  know  their  ire,  Charles,  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, went  forth  from  his  chateau. 


THE  MIRACULOUS  CATCH. 

The  tidings  seemed  so  Heaven-sent, — an  uncle  dead  so  k  propos — 
my  dear  little  Louis  Eleventh  was  fain  to  properly  express  his  glee  and 
gain  additional  content  with  a  modest  fete,  but  intimately,  in  pleasant 
society. 

Master  Tristan,  all  imagination,  counseled  a  picnic  in  the  plain,  and 
as  he  blinked  with  his  sly  red  eyes,  "I  consent,"  said  the  King.  "  'Tis 
good  advice.    You're  an  old  villain,  though,  just  the  same." 

Next  day,  'neath  skies  of  celestial  blue,  gay  and  content,  my  sweet 
little  King,  Louis  Eleventh,  with  Tristan  L'Ermite  and  their  fair,  frail 
friends,  Simonne  of  the  Chains  and  Perrette  of  the  Treasure,  together 
came  to  fish  for  the  gudgeon  that  swim  in  the  Seine,  at  the  reedy  foot 
of  the  Tower  of  Nesle. 

Master  Oliver,  still  a  virgin,  stands  sentry  near  the  river's  margin. 
He  strides  along  his  tedious  beat,  crushing  the  grass  with  careless  feet. 


PAUL   FORT  33 

Agape  in  boredom's  black  abyss  no  consolation  can  he  find.     The  fall 
of  Buridan  it  is  that  occupies  his  mind. 

Simonne  of  the  Cliains,  soul  and  heart  fast  bound  to  the  heart  and 
soul  of  her  well-loved  King,  like  a  dainty  water-lily  bent  above  an  ancient 
nenuphar,  on  her  lover's  threadbare  shoulder  leant  her  bosom's  snows, 
her  brow  of  milk,  her  little  nose  of  swan-white  silk ;  and,  now  and  then, 
the  gracious  King,  Louis  of  France,  with  a  tender  look,  would  bid  his 
lovely  handmaid  bring  a  squirming  maggot  to  bait  his  hook.  Then 
'twas  with  such  a  melting  charm  that  into  a  small,  green  box  she  poured 
one,  'twas  with  such  a  sweet  and  profound  appeal  that  she  gave  the 
creature,  all  quivering,  to  that  reclining  King,  her  adored  one,  that 
Louis  the  impulse  no  more  restrains  but  kisses  an  ear  (not  the  ear  of 
the  maggot  but  that  of  Simonne  of  the  Chains),  amorously  whispering 
into  its  hollow,  meekly  bent,  **  You 'shall  be  present  when  I  call  the  Three 
Estates  to  Parliament." 

Perrette  of  the  Treasure  (formerly  King  Louis'  light-o'-love,  your 
pardon! — now  bequeathed,  a  charming  guerdon,  to  Tristan  by  royal 
clemency)  was  plump  and  fresh  as  a  rambler  rose,  cheeks  like  a  peach, 
ample  bosom  bare,  where,  in  duplicate  glows  the  rising  sun,  each  breast 
an  orb,  but  a  pointed  one,  starred  with  grains  of  beauty  ambulant  (fleas 
I  would  say),  whereon  the  gaunt  Tristan  from  underneath  his  hood  full 
often  lets  his  glances  brood.  And  when  good  Tristan,  his  line  dra^vn 
taut,  a  fresher  maggot  would  fain  acquire,  'twas  with  a  manner  so  lan- 
g:uor-fraught  the  plump  dame  granted  this  slight  desire,  that,  quite 
transported  with  Cupid's  blisses,  he  dropped  his  line  her  side  to  gain! 
The  line,  released,  went  flic,  flac,  floe,  and  sank  beneath  the  Seine,  while 
Perrette  received  on  her  neck,  all  warm,  two  or  three  hearty  headsman 's 
kisses. 

Master  Oliver,  still  a  virgin,  stands  sentry  near  the  river's  margin. 
He  strides  along  his  tedious  beat,  crushing  the  grass  with  careless  feet. 
Agape  in  boredom 's  black  abyss  no  consolation  can  he  find.  The  fall  of 
Buridan  it  is  that  occupies  his  mind. 

He  saw  with  inattentive  eyes,  like  a  flower  beside  the  river's  brim,  a 
certain  Master  Villon  skim  the  reeds  in  chase  of  dragon-flies.  From 
eyes  ablaze  with  anarchy  a  side-long  glance  he  sometimes  sends  towards 
the  place  where  those  boon-companions  ply  the  angler's  art  with  their 
gentle  friends.    Master  Oliver,  still  a  virgin,  having  other  fish  to  fry, 


34       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

that  advent  scarcely  heeds.  Vaguely  he  saw  Master  Villon  disrobe 
among  the  reeds,  but  merely  murmured  in  slumbrous  tone,  like  one 
who  speaks  in  dreams,  *  *  That  naked  gentleman  is  not  unknown  to  me,  it 
seems." 

And  Tristan  L'Ermite  landed  naught.  And  Louis  Eleventh  landed 
naught.  The  maggots  spun  in  vain,  in  vain.  .  .  .  And  Master  Francois 
Villon,  now  swimming  in  mid-Seine,  as  he  floated,  whispered  to  his 
brother  fish,  "Liberty  forever!    Don't  let  yourselves  be  caught!" 

** Gossip,"  said  Tristan,  "if  you  are  good,  and  sage  withal,  I  here 
engage  to  give  you  a  pass,  wherewith  to  break  the  cordon  of  the  Scot- 
tish guard  when  I  hang  and  when  I  decapitate."  Quoth  Perrette  of 
the  Treasure,  "A  neat  reward."  "And,"  continued  Tristan,  in  merry 
vein,  "if  your  heart  does  not  bid  you  the  fatal  view  shun,  some  fine 
Spring  morning  you  shall  see  the  rapid  and  joyous  execution  of  the 
virgin  Oliver  le  Dain."  "I'll  be  there,  I'll  be  there,"  responded  Per- 
rette, clapping  her  hands  with  glee. 

— "Peace!"  cried  the  King,  "or  this  turbot  I  miss." 

— "A  turbot,  seigneur,  is  a  fish  of  the  sea,"  .  .  .  timidly  ventured  the 
tender  Simonne.  "With  my  mother  I've  sold  full  many  a  one  in  the 
market-place  of  Saint-Honore  in  the  time  of  my  virginity. ' ' — *  *  A  fish  of 
the  sea,  eh?  Then  that  was  why  I  missed  him!"  the  monarch  made 
reply,  not  disconcerted  in  the  least ! 

"Days  that  are  o'er  will  return  no  more,"  hummed  Perrette,  on  her 
hose  intent.  "Yes,  youth  has  only  a  single  time,"  Tristan  intoned  in 
hearty  assent.  Thereat  the  timid,  the  tender  Simonne  cooed  to  an  air 
that  is  little  known,  "  'Twas  twenty  years  ago  my  mother  died."  It 
needed  only  that.  Tristan  dissolved  in  tears.  While  the  King  as  he 
fished  the  wind  chanted  stentorianly,  "No,  no,  my  friends,  I  do  not 
wish  a  thing  of  naught  to  be !  .  .  . " 

And  Tristan  L'Ermite  landed  naught.  And  Louis  Eleventh  landed 
naught.  In  vain  the  tempting  maggot  spins.  The  aesthetic  gudgeons 
loud  applaud,  clapping  their  frantic  fins.  Applaud  no  doubt,  is  figura- 
tive but  who  knows  what  fantastic  dream  is  truth  in  the  depths  where 
fishes  live  at  the  bottom  of  the  stream? 


PAUL   FORT  35 

At  the  reedy  foot  of  the  Tower  of  Nesle.  those  cronies  good,  headsman 
and  King,  in  chorus  sing  like  birds  of  the  wood.  And  about  their  floats 
the  little  fish  waltz  as  sweetly  as  heart  could  wish. 

Master  Oliver,  still  a  virgin,  stands  sentry  near  the  river's  margin. 

Then  suddenly  Perrette  smothered  a  laugh  in  her  skirt.  My  sweet 
little  Louis  Eleventh,  feeling  his  line  drawn  taut  and  heaving  it  up 
with  ardour,  a  king-fisher  had  caught.  "A  wager,"  Tristan  said.  Si- 
monne,  "A  winged  gudgeon,"  cried.  And  Master  Oliver  halted  dead 
in  the  middle  of  his  stride. 

"On  my  word,  the  judgment  was  too  empiric,"  mused  Villon,  swim- 
ming beneath  the  stream.  "To  fish  for  a  gudgeon  and  catch  a  bird.  .  .  . 
In  the  bourgeois  soul  of  that  curmudgeon  mean,  somewhere  survives  the 
germ  of  a  lyric ! ' ' 

And  about  their  floats  the  little  fish  waltzed  as  sweetly  as  heart  could 
wish. 


Extracts  from  Book  XII. 
In  Complicity  with  Heaven. 


THE    HEROIC   RESISTANCE    OF   THE    CITY   OF   BEAUVAIS. 

It  seemed  that  Master  Tristan  L'Ermite  was  not  deceived.  Burgundy 
judged  herself  considerably  aggrieved,  what  do  I  say?  dreamed  only 
of  vengeance,  and  lusted  after  war.  To  be  just,  when  I  speak  of  Bur- 
gundy one  must  substitute  therefor  Monseigneur  Charles,  those  honest 
carles,  the  Burgundians,  if  interviewed,  I  know  full  well  would  have 
made  reply,  "Better  it  is  one's  phiz  to  dye  with  ruddy  wine  than  with 
blood."  What  would  you  have?  They  are  men  of  sense  who  naught 
of  frontiers  know  save  of  the  rustic  sort  that  fence  the  fields  where 
their  harvests  grow. 


36       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

The  cities  of  the  Somme  regained  beneath  his  caressing  mittens,  and 
the  wealth  he  drew  from  Guyenne  close-snuggled  against  his  slippered 
feet,  our  clever  King  Louis  found  himself  more  powerful  than  ever. 
His  royal  soul  could  bask  in  happiness  complete. 

Charles  did  not  hesitate,  but  mustered  up  his  rage,  and,  as  one  renda 
a  garment  weakened  with  wear  and  age,  with  a  great  and  sudden  blow 
he  tore  the  truce  asunder.  The  Flemish  gold  had  aided  him  new  armies 
to  prepare.  "With  these  once  more  he  invaded  France,  led  by  the  lure 
of  plunder. 

Simultaneously  he  published  a  haughty  proclamation  bidding  all 
peers  and  gentle-folk  throughout  the  Gallic  nation  to  unite  for  the  over- 
throw of  that  villainous  fratricide, — puffed  up  with  spleen  and  pride 
'twas  thus  that  his  monarch  he  maligned,  that  good  King  who  had  crossed 
himself  from  his  brow  to  the  earth  beneath  when  he  heard  the  heavy 
tidings  of  his  younger  brother's  death — to  unite  in  avenging  that  most 
unnatural  murder  whose  piteous  parallel  you  could  not  find  in  the 
annals  of  Christian  Europe  for  all  of  thirty  years. 

Proclamation  and  spleen  well  sewed  with  fair  white  thread. 

Apparently  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  within  this  specious  snare  was 
netted,  but  it  was  not  he  who  had  invented  the  thread  to  cut  the  am- 
brosial butter  minted  in  his  fair  domain.  From  his  side  he  waited 
Fortune's  chances,  keeping  his  lances  whetted. 

Charles,  from  the  other,  took  and  pillaged  Nesle,  which  city,  for- 
merly his  appurtenance,  but  ravished  from  him  by  King  Louis  of 
France  some  time  since,  in  the  alien  interim  had  yielded  to  King  Louis 
of  France  twice  the  love  that  it  owed  to  him.  For  that  grim  counte- 
nance gave  fear  to  all  the  world. 

Citizens,  garrison,  bowmen,  burghers,  wives,  and  babes  were  the  ob- 
ject of  a  wholesale  massacre,  paying  the  price  of  defeat  beneath  the 
knives  of  their  foemen  till  each  street  was  softly  paved  with  piles  of 
slain.  The  blood  above  their  bodies  flowed  in  a  current  several  inches 
deep. — ^When  the  Duke  rode  into  the  city  great  was  his  satisfaction. 
The  tail  of  his  horse  was  trailing  in  the  blood. 

His  face  was  lit  by  a  wide  and  savage  smile. 

"Behold  the  fruit,"  he  cried,  "that  grows  on  the  tree  of  war.  A 
goodly  sight,  in  sooth!  By  the  rood,  I  have  good  butchers  in  my  em- 
ploy." 

Then  he  spurred  full  tilt  through  the  midst  of  the  corpses,  weeping 
with  joy  the  while. 


PAUL   FORT  37 

King  Louis,  being  a  man  experienced,  swift  and  wise,  upon  that  crim- 
son card  let  fall  a  trump  with,  speed.  He  had  just  concocted  a  plan  of 
campaign,  a  simple  stratef^'  whereby  to  neutralize  his  enemy  at  need. 

Around  the  armies  of  Duke  Charles,  which  gaped  thereat  in  great 
amaze,  the  light-armed  archers  of  the  King,  under  the  conduct  of  Dam- 
martin,  ravaged  the  country,  set  ablaze  the  crops,  and  drove  away  the 
cattle. — Yet  scrupulously  avoided  battle. — These  skirmishers  the  .swal- 
low aped.  If  at  the  verge  of  the  far  horizon,  uplifted  'gainst  the  heaven 's 
blue,  they  for  an  instant  clapped  their  eyes  on  a  standard  with  a  lion, 
pfuitt !  at  topmost  speed  away  they  flew,  leaving  around  Duke  Charles 
a  barren  plain  bereft  of  harvests,  villages  and  foes. 

Yet  forward,  none  the  less,  he  goes. 

He  marches  with  close-clenched  teeth,  while  his  gut  with  hunger 
grapples. 

He  marches  to  join  with  Brittany,  his  allj^  persisting  ever  in  the 
fond  belief  that  his  brother-duke,  having  conquered  in  Normandy,  with 
toothsome  spoils  is  sated,  being  stayed  with  foaming  milk  and  com- 
forted with  apples. 

More  weak,  more  thin,  with  every  step  he  needs  must  stop  some  day. 

He  stopped  before  Beauvais,  which  grimly  awaited  him. 

#       '     *  *  *  «  «  * 

Antoine  Canard,  whose  surname  was  de  Latre,  equerry  in  the  stable 
of  the  King,  precipitately  left  the  royal  court,  on  the  morning  of  July 
the  twelfth,  to  bring  a  missive  to  the  inhabitants  of  Beauvais  under  the 
seal  of  their  most  gracious  King,  Louis  Eleventh,  wherein  he  did  convey 
"to  his  most  deer  and  well-luved  subjects"  thanks  for  their  vigorous, 
their  leonine,  resistance  to  Duke  Charles  of  Burgundy,  whose  stubborn 
ranks  besieged  them  with  unshakable  persistence. 

Though  naught  redounded  to  Duke  Charles  thereby  save  increments 
of  shame  and  infamy.  Always  springing  to  the  assault,  always  hurled 
back  again.  But  if  the  point  of  his  warlike  lance  was  somewhat  worn 
away,  the  edge  of  his  robust  appetite  grew  keener  day  by  day. 

Alas !  the  victuals  were  in  Beauvais. 

When  with  his  warriors  true  he  strove  their  walls  to  scale,  Beauvais* 
bold  burghers  threw,  what,  think  you?  roasted  quail?  No.  Butter, 
radishes?  Pray  try  another  guess.  Lambs?  Oxen?  "Well,  not  often. 
Fresh  strawberries  with  cream?  Canteloupe?  Salsifies?  Fie!  You 
either  mock  or  dream.  Molten  lead  on  their  eye-balls  dropped.  'Gainst 
their  noses  flaming  torches  fell,  (full-blown  roses,  good  to  smell),  and 
o'er  all  their  bodies  a  joyous  pell-mell,  hurtled  down  from  the  ram- 


38       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

part's  brink,  comprised  of  furniture,  paving  stones,  roofing-slates,  bul- 
lets, half-gnawed  bones,  excrements  of  various  sorts,  sledges,  anvils,  nails, 
both  big  and  little,  wooden  casks  and  steel  retorts,  casseroles,  kitchen 
dishes,  spittle,  spoons,  forks,  frying-pans,  urine,  ink,  hot  grease  and  lots 
of  boiling  oil  that  sudden  conflagration  spreads,  tomb-stones,  well-curbs, 
gutters,  walls,  the  belfry  with  the  bell  that  calls  a  last  alarm,  and  small 
bells,  too,  which  graciously  tintinnabulate  rained  down  on  those  devoted 
heads. 

What  did  they  throw  besides,  naught  but  the  truth  to  state  1 

Ah,  many  objects,  sharp,  contusing,  slitting,  cutting,  smashing,  bruis- 
ing, rough,  protuberant,  horned  and  jointed,  toothed  like  a  saw,  like  a 
plough-share  pointed.  Earth,  sheet-metal,  iron,  steel,  and  chiselled  stone 
were  taken,  humped,  bristling,  twisted,  ragged,  confused,  irregular,  mis- 
shapen, coated  with  rust  and  moss,  in  shreds,  in  strips,  in  wedges, 
pocked,  riddled,  shaped  like  a  cross,  like  a  jack,  like  a  hook,  with  slash- 
ing, jagged  edges,  crashing,  roaring,  whistling,  snoring,  going  humph, 
ouf,  louf,  pouf,  pang,  srang,  trangl,  balaam,  bottom,  bettang,  batar, 
arara,  raraboum,  bul,  bul,  breloc,  relic,  relaps,  mil,  bomb,  marl,  broug, 
batocl,  mirobol,  pec,  poc,  quett,  strict,  pac,  dyex,  mec,  pitt,  sec,  seef, 
swahf,  fleek,  fang,  breec,  brrrrr  .  .  .  that  crushed  the  skulls,  enlarged 
the  noses,  knit  the  ears,  slit  the  mouths,  sent  in  jumbled  rout,  teeth,  chins, 
cheek-bones,  elbows,  arms,  legs,  toes,  as,  scorning  one  for  an  omelet  no 
doubt,  they  wedded  eye  to  eye,  denuded  the  shoulder-blades,  caved  the 
thorax  and  chest  in,  chilled  hearts  past  the  pit  of  the  paunch  protruded, 
through  the  right  buttock,  then  through  the  left  one  went  prying, 
spinning  them  into  a  false  intestine,  bashed  to  a  jelly  the  testacies,  made 
knee-pans  into  billiard-balls,  ravelled  the  feet  into  strange  abortions,  in 
an  instant's  span  deftly  cleft  a  man  into  five,  six,  seven  quivering  por- 
tions. 

Yes,  indeed,  and  now  once  more,  what  was  it  that  they  flung? 

Taunts,  dead  bodies,  arrows,  dung? 

Still  better !  (tremble  with  me)— dwellings.  And  had  aught  increased 
the  martial  ire  that  swelled  their  bosoms,  I  suppose  they'd  have  pitched 
the  town  entire  on  the  helmets  of  their  foes ! 

Happily  Dammartin,  anticipating  this  crisis,  privily  entered  into 
Beauvais  with  his  nimble  bands  of  bowmen  and  bade  the  burghers  stay 
these  glorious  disbursements.  Estimating,  wise  warrior  that  he  was, 
that  'twould  embarrass  his  monarch  such  expenses  to  defray,  he  quickly 
brought  the  city  to  its  senses,  from  that  time  forth  conducting  the  de- 
fenses on  lines  conforming  to  the  accepted  mode.    For  from  every  side 


PAUL   FORT  39 

a  vast  array  of  troops  each  day  towards  the  postern  port  press,  eager 
to  raise  the  siege  of  that  valiant  civic  fortress.  Duke  Charles,  a  Caesar 
every  inch,  in  his  haste  to  ease  his  hunger-pinch  with  a  crusty  loaf,  and 
his  thirst  to  quench  were  it  but  with  a  firkin  of  unfermented  wine,  while 
with  air-drawn  dainties  his  mind  made  free,  had  omitted  to  militarily 
invest  Beauvais  on  the  side  of  Paris.  And  troops,  troops,  troops  con- 
tinuously through  that  open  pathway  flowed. 

On  this  side,  as  on  the  other,  one  might  suppose  a  joyous  truce  would 
soon  protrude  its  nose. — The  King,  then,  gave  his  valorous  subjects 
thanks  and  by  the  missive  Master  Antoine  Canard,  chief  equerry  of  his 
stable,  did  consign  into  their  hands  this  fourteenth  of  July,  exempted 
them  from  villein-tax  and  gabel,  restored  the  ancient  privileges  bestowed 
upon  Beauvais  in  the  days  of  Philip  the  Fair,  called  them,  to  crown 
their  honors'  shining  load,  the  worthy  progenj'-  of  Charlemagne,  saviours 
of  the  proud  empire  of  the  Franks,  promising  they  should  be  perpetu- 
ally objects  of  his  especial  love  and  care.  Then,  in  conclusion,  begged, 
nay  commanded  them,  to  lay  his  royal  honunage  at  the  feet  of  a  certain 
Dame  Laisne,  thenceforward  known  to  fame  as  Jeanne  Hachette. 

A  glorious  and  an  almost  national  fete  was  held  in  Beauvais  that 
fourteenth  of  July.  In  default  of  chiming  bells,  that  had  gone  to  coif 
the  climbing  Burgundian,  the  martial  trumpets  blared  their  loud  ac- 
claim. Banners  brilliant  with  sunlight  around  the  ramparts  wound, 
the  great  procession  of  Saint  Angedresme;  and,  to  disgruntle  Charles, 
with  his  faithful  bastion-stormers,  who,  foiled  and  furious,  watched  them 
from  the  plain,  tartlets  were  munched  by  public  and  performers. 


LET  PASS 
MY  SWEET  LITTLE  LOUIS  XI. 

By  easy  stages,  my  sweet  little  Louis  XI  from  Nantes  to  his  little 
Plessis-le-Tour  jaunted  contentedly;  fine  and  dark,  supple  and  sweet, 
perched  on  his  orange  mare,  oftentimes  little  Louis  XI  in  the  first  gray 
dawn  of  day  sniffing  the  odor  of  hay  in  the  dew^'  breeze ; 

oftentimes  on  the  white  road  and  whistling  to  the  lark,  at  the  edge 
of  the  nodding  wheat  that  chimes  'neath  the  southeni  sky ; 

skirting  the  hawthorn  hedge,  all  armoured  with  snowy  sheets  that  wave 
and  dry  in  an  ocean  wind,  surcharged  with  the  salt  of  the  sea ; 

oftentimes  little  Louis  Eleventh  slumbering  peacefully,  lulled  by  the 
drowsy  motion  of  his  mare ; 


40       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

little  Louis  XI  shaded  by  azure  forests  deep  (do  you  hear  the  voice 
of  the  cuckoo? — no,  I  am  asleep). 

by  the  brink  of  the  fountains  where  young  virgins  laugh  between  slim 
reeds  with  arrowy  rain  agleam,  little  Louis  XI  one  eye  uncloses,  amply 
sufficient  it  would  seem. 

by  the  reach  of  the  stream  where  the  curlews  skim  one  drowzes,  one 
rouses,  one  lives  in  a  dream,  a  vision  vague  and  dim; 

in  front  of  the  wind-mills  that  signal  each  to  each,  little  Louis  XI 
raised  his  hand  in  salute; 

not  far  from  isolated  granges  where  freely  the  fattened  porker  ranges, 
where  the  pigeon,  beside  the  embastilled  hare,  in  the  quiet  coos  so  sad 
an  air  that  the  heart  is  like  to  drown  with  sorrow,  where  at  times  a  band 
of  ducks  and  geese  with  gilded  beaks  in  panic  flees  from  the  coming  of 
a  King  of  France  who,  in  the  farm-yard  court  perchance,  from  two  sun- 
burned women,  who  smile  beneath  their  sheaves,  a  bowl  of  fresh  milk 
would  borrow ; 

or  on  a  wherry  crossing  o'er  the  waters  of  the  lovely  Loire,  his  fingers 
clutching  the  nostrils  of  his  mare,  his  eyes  on  the  rower  of  the  ferry,  a 
specimen  extremely  hairy,  uncompromisingly  hirsute ; 

or  under  the  rosy  favors  a  friendly  tempest  waves  while  crackling 
thunders  surge  the  tufted  cloud- wrack  through;  little  Louis  XI,  with- 
out more  ado,  crosses  himself  with  both  hands  yet  saves  the  reins  that 
he  may  more  certainly  be  kept  from  hurtling  earthward  to  crush  some 
clump  of  spurge  beneath  his  somewhat  thinly  cushioned  rear:  yet  lets 
his  frightened  mare,  in  headlong  flight,  tear  through  the  meadows,  rush 
through  flowering  broom,  plash  under-foot  the  innocent  marguerite, 
crush  with  her  hoof  the  cowslips'  petals  five ; — in  the  midst  of  the  storm's 
mad  strife,  quite  calm  upon  his  beast,  he  waits  the  rainbow  to  raise  his 
head  again,  then  emerges  from  the  proof  muddied  from  head  to  feet; 
clever  little  Louis  XI  had  never  the  least  complaint  to  urge ; 

near  great  chateaux,  perched  on  hillsides  olive-gray  that  skies  blue-of- 
Franee  surround  with  fleecy  mist,  little  Louis  XI  rapidly  steered  his 
way ;  and  if  to  relieve  his  boredom,  a  country  count  appeared,  whistle  in 
teeth  and  bird  on  wrist,  little  Louis  XI,  one  finger  pressed  to  lips  that 
a  secret  smile  caressed,  in  his  servitor's  ear  would  whisper  low  this 
single  word  "Incognito  .  .  .'*; 

near  villages,  grouped  together  like  flotsam,  on  the  plain  behind  the 
heather 's  gently  heaving  swell ; 

infinitely  rocking  billows  of  the  plain!  0  all  those  shining  villages 
by  waves  of  herbage  lulled!  .  .  .  (someone  nods  on  his  mare) ; 


PAUL   FORT  41 

when  at  evening  he  passed  through  the  back-streeta  of  the  towns,  a 
strain  of  martial  music  often  accompanied  him :  a  troop  of  gamins  beat- 
ing on  pots  in  the  sunset-crimsoned  dust;  little  Louis  XI  marked  the 
measure  with  his  chin ; 

the  hood  pulled  low  o'er  his  brow  he  travelled  tranquilly  and  though 
now  and  then  a  cow  stared  at  him  curiously,  though  an  occasional  cur 
or  thistle-cropping  ass  with  meditative  gaze  beheld  their  monarch  pass, 
yet  in  truth  the  King  on  his  tawny  mare  passed  unrecognized  every- 
where : 

oftentimes  little  Louis  XI  listening  to  the  angelus  in  a  wind  that  is 
laden  with  clustered  memories ; 

oftentimes  little  Louis  XI  gnawing  a  crusty  loaf  (the  white  bread  of 
our  Lord,  but  with  golden  cheese  above),  for  little  Louis  XI  with  never- 
failing  zeal  sought  for  his  little  oesophagus  a  palatable  meal ; 

oftentimes  little  Louis  XI  in  the  twilight 's  dusky  deeps :  it  seems  that 
he  advances,  one  would  say  that  he  retreats ; 

or  Louis  XI,  fine  and  dark,  against  a  background  of  stars,  lulled  in  a 
ray  from  the  moon,  little  Louis  XI  his  face  upraised  to  heaven,  his  little 
bottom  cradled  on  his  mare,  fine  Valois  head  envisaging  in  dream  force 
universal,  little  Louis  XI  probing  the  provinces  of  the  firmament,  slyly 
in  search  of  his  accomplice,  God. 

Plessis-les-Tours ! — one  crept  in  quietly  .  .  .  Charlotte  slept.  King 
Louis  of  France  soon  after  did  the  same, — not  without  having  seized  the 
chance  a  little  to  tickle  the  dame. 


42  SELECTED   POEMS   AND   BALLADS   OF 


ANTIQUE  IDYLLS 

and 

HYMNS. 

followed  by 

THE  SPORTS  OF  WINTER  AND  SPRING. 

1900. 

THE  CUP  OF  INIENALCHUS. 

Tityrus,  on  my  cup  warmly  the  season  glows!  Beneficent  Tityrns, 
the  wine  you  pour  for  me  in  its  scented  boxwood  bowl  doth  range  most 
amorously,  like  showery  pearls  that  poise  in  the  bosom  of  a  rose. 

For  round  its  bowl  are  wrought  bright  figures  manifold,  which  vividly 
depict  such  gay  adventuring,  the  beverage,  clear  wine  or  crystal  from 
the  spring,  rejoices,  through  itself  such  pageants  to  behold. 

And  oft  their  sight  consoles  my  ennui,  as  I  quaff,  more  than  the  Sabine 
wine  so  fresh  from  cups  of  wood. — Beneficent  Tityrus,  I  have  drunk. 
The  wine  is  good.    Follow  my  finger's  end,  regard,  and  learn  to  laugh. 

Here,  first,  I've  shown  a  tree  and,  'neath  its  leafy  tent,  four  charm- 
ing, naked  babes,  chubby  and  innocent,  like  monkeys  who  rehearse  their 
master's  every  move,  mimic  the  gcsturings  invented  by  young  love. 

Tityrus  dost  thou  know  how,  furious  and  blind,  tyrannous  love  sub- 
dues all  amorous  mankind?  Look,  Tityrus.  Approach.  Your  artist 
eyes  to  please,  carved  to  the  life  behold  the  virtuous  Hercules. 


PAUL   FORT  43 

He,  thread  by  thread,  unwinds,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  mask,  that 
which  he  wove  by  day  under  imijortunate  eyes.  At  his  lady's  feet  his 
club  is  dropped.  Relaxed  he  lies,  profoundly  sunk  in  sleep  above  his 
little  task. 

O'er  all  the  amorous  swains  Love  triumphs.  By  his  doom  Phoebus 
Apollo,  god  of  circling  planets,  came  a  shepherd's  humble  cloak  eagerly 
to  assume.    My  great-coat  is  portrayed  above  his  shoulder's  flame. 

See,  and  'tis  I,  Menalchus, — here,  is  it  not  well  done? — who  seize  the 
reins  and  houp!  drive  headlong  up  the  sky  clear  to  the  goblet's  brim 
the  coursers  of  the  sun.  Yet  I  cling  to  my  car  o'erturned  in  heaven's 
profundity. 

He  who  goes  hurtling  down  is  not  T,  be  it  understood.  'Tis  Phaeton, 
indeed,  at  whom  Menalchus  mocks.  Sheer  to  my  flagon 's  depths  see  hoW| 
he  falls,  and  shocks,  crushing  his  hapless  head,  on  its  sonorous  wood. 

At  her  open  casement  there  fair  Danae  inclines,  and,  trembling  all 
at  once,  her  heart  wdth  joy  astir,  at  a  dawn  in  whose  dim  light  a  golden 
shower  shines,  takes  to  her  passionate  breast  the  minted  Jupiter. 

Do  but  behold  this  stream  drawn  with  an  art  so  true  one  hears  the 
gentle  strain  its  flowing  w^aters  sing.  Nude  Psyche,  plunged  waist  deep 
in  the  wave  and  murmuring,  combs  out  her  golden  hair,  the  breeze,  the 
vaulting  blue. 

Furling,  unfurling,  furling  their  wings  three  cupids  fair,  flutter  about 
her  head,  dazed  by  so  sweet  a  prize,  one  by  the  foot  made  fast  is  tangled 
in  her  hair.  One  burns  his  tongue  with  beams  from  those  resplendent 
eyes. 

The  third,  through  the  wave  perceiving  the  marvel  of  a  thigh,  recurl- 
ing  tumbled  locks  where  golden  lustres  gleam,  and  sleeking  ruffled 
plumes,  plunges  besottedly,  and  drowns  his  silly  self  in  the  centre  of 
the  stream. 

"With  luminous  belly,  see,  'neath  branches  beauteous,  tippling  from 
that  great  cask  the  fat  Silenus  pours,  Bacchus,  god  of  fruitful  vines. — 
But  'tis  enough  discourse.  .  .  .  Hum!  Hum!  .  .  .  the  season's  warm 
on  my  cup,  good  Tityrus ! 


44  SELECTED   POEMS   AND   BALLADS   OF 

MOKPHEUS 

Through  Ijtic  summers  gay,  when  sunlight  floods  the  air,  while  lush 
and  verdant  grass  makes  all  the  world  more  fair,  swift  gods  and  agile 
nymphs,  in  lovely  multitude,  speed  o  'er  the  plains,  by  the  swarm  of  their 
golden  hair  pursued. 

On  their  shoulders,  azure  drones  of  snoring  ease  partake.  The  lady- 
birds clasp  flowers  about  their  calves  and  thighs.  At  the  rosy  breasts  of 
nymphs  great  yellow  butterflies  palpitate ;  and  their  heels  trail  scarabs  in 
their  wake. 

Poised  on  the  flank  of  hills,  where  silver  sunlight  pours,  brown  oreads 
emerge  from  temples  white  and  small.  Dryads,  the  light  of  groves,  come 
trooping,  one  and  all,  slipping  their  naked  forms  through  blue,  arboreal 
doors. 

"With  May  and  roses  crowned,  or  rushes  from  the  weir,  to  the  tawny 
arms  of  fauns  the  nymphs  their  waists  resign.  ''Raise  like  a  dawn  your 
arms  through  the  troubled  atmosphere,  Eunice,  Aeglea,  Nais,  Eione, 
Proserpine. '  * 

Beneath  the  wheat  unveil  your  suppleness,  Phrixa !  Pan  follows  you, 
both  horns  burning  with  solar  fire.  The  frou-frou  of  your  course  through 
murmurous  grass,  Phrixa,  has  wakened  in  his  heart  full  many  a  fell 
desire. 

And  thou,  Pan,  lithe  and  dark,  fleet  god,  in  mid-pursuit,  bend  down, 
on  the  bluets  snuff  the  print  of  a  lovely  foot,  pluck  at  a  heel,  entire  the 
vermeil  blossom  pull.  Thanks  to  your  heat  the  wheat  unfolds  in  baskets- 
full. 

Sudden,  what  frantic  nymphs  seek  the  horizon's  rim,  what  sprites  dis- 
solved in  dew  back  to  their  fountains  flee !  Lo,  Morpheus  comes,  thick- 
veiled  in  shadowy  gauzes  dim.  Each  dryad,  terror-struck,  takes  refuge  in 
her  tree. 

Swiftly  the  scrambling  fauns  attain  the  craggy  height.  Like  will-o'- 
the  wisps  their  horns  efface  each  shining  speck.  Morpheus,  god  of  shades, 
comes  from  the  dawn  in  flight.  The  hot  fist  of  the  sun  brandished  above 
his  neck. 


PAUL   FORT  45 

With  summer's  heady  tufts  his  nostrils  over-full,  he  staggers,  Mor- 
pheus, the  god  with  feet  of  wool !  Drunken  with  heated  air  himself  the 
god  assails,  rending,  with  out-stretched  arm,  his  dimly  shimmering  veils. 

In  softest  shade  the  grass  his  drowsy  form  doth  fold.  He  sprawls  along 
the  grass  regarding  stainless  skies.  Zenithed  Apollo  plumbs  the  pupils 
of  his  eyes.    He  falls.    His  aqueous  eyes  smoke  under  lid.s  of  gold. 

Still  Morpheus,  proud-necked,  defies  the  sunlight's  force,  and  towards 
that  orb,  whose  fires  with  frenzied  poppies  swarm,  upheaves  a  streaming 
breast  where  silver  planets  course.  .  .  .  Infinite  azure,  now,  is  mirrored 
in  his  form. 

But  soon,  his  ruddy  hair,  alluring  many  a  bee,  a  bed  of  murmur  soothes 
his  flaming  countenance.  Swollen  with  veins,  his  fists  relax  upon  his 
paunch.    And  on  warm  turf  I  hear  a  snoring  deity. 

But  hark!  "With  sounding  honi  Diana  is  awake!  High  o'er  the  for- 
est's verge  she  calls  her  greyhounds  fleet,  the  color  of  the  moon,  in  many 
a  dim  retreat  scaring  the  stags  deep-couched  in  berry-scented  brake. 

From  summer  nights  the  god  doth  greatest  pomp  derive.  Morpheus 
mounts  superb  amid  fresh  verdure's  scent.  Shaking  his  locks,  with  bees 
he  fills  the  firmament.  And  stars  in  myriads  buzz  beneath  the  heaven's 
blue  hive. 


ICARUS 

Impetuous,  ocean  winds  whipping  his  sun-bright  hair,  what  man  with 
dauntless  feet  thus  spurneth  vertigo.  His  long,  triumphant  shout  en- 
wreaths  the  vales  below  with  circling  echoes  long,  swirled  down  through 
eddying  air. 

Aurora,  has  some  soul  escaped  hell 's  scarlet  mesh  1  What  man  with  two 
gold  wings  dares  heaven 's  uncharted  ways?  Shouting  he  traverses  a  sky 
the  hue  of  flesh  that  emerald-glinting  dawn  with  laurels  fair  doth  glaze. 

He  soars.  The  sun  appears.  He  gains  its  aureate  glows,  with  rays  like 
golden  plumes  enrobed  resplendently.     Piercing  them  with  his  wings, 


46       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

more  swiftly  still  he  goes.    His  image  and  his  shade  attend  him  o'er  the 
sea. 

He  mounts,  he  runs,  he  swims  the  far  aethereal  meres,  sporting  and 
rolling  there.  What  man  and  bird  have  mated?  Backward  he  plunges 
down.  'Tis  azure  sky !  0  spheres !  .  .  .  His  shoulder  has,  through  space, 
more  largely  palpitated. 

How  soft  the  yielding  blue!  What  matter  though  he  falls?  Like 
water's  flow  his  flight  ascends  a  gentle  hill.  He  traverses,  he  tears  the 
tempests'  azure  grill,  and  laughs  at  having  wrecked  those  fragile  prison 
walls. 

Earth  watches.  One  faint  spark  still  shines  uncertainly,  one  golden 
point  that  fades  where  dusky  swallows  flit.  Seeking  his  image  vague 
down  heaven's  swift-deepening  pit,  he  laughs  at  Icarus  decreasing  on  the 
sea. 

He  laughs,  he  flies,  he  mounts,  he  laughs,  he  has  wide  wings.  For  his 
delight  the  air  he  conquers.  Mild  and  meek  about  his  shining  limbs  the 
gentle  azure  clings  and  amorously  rubs  his  shoulder  and  his  cheek. 

Earth  and  mankind  pursued  in  exultation  fond,  men 's  eyes  and  moun- 
tain crests.  The  force  of  one,  alone,  0  love !  inertia's  sway  has  vanquished 
and  o'erthrown,  and  the  sea,  that  mirrors  him,  has  risen,  vagabond. 

New  mountain  ranges  rise  created  in  a  cry.  Earth  speaks  and  heaves. 
The  oaks,  the  granite  cliifs  profound,  the  heathery  plateaus  where  Titan 
midnights  lie,  are  its  voice.  0  speak,  ye  plains,  shaping  yourselves  with 
sound. 

And  men  in  myriads  rise  to  emulation  stirred.  Standing,  high  pin- 
nacled, on  the  precipice 's  rim,  uplifting  eyes  and  arms  towards  that  bold 
human  bird  they  feel  their  foreheads'  veins  pulse  with  their  love  for 
him. 

Yet  Icarus  flies  on.  It  suits  his  pleasure  well.  He  would  find  whence 
fire  first  came  to  kindle  human  clods,  see,  as  medusas  dim  appear  on 
ocean's  swell  from  azure  depths  emerge  the  faces  of  the  gods. 


PAUL   FORT  47 

What  does  he  come  to  gain?  He  fain  would  know.  He  loves.  What 
would  he  undertake  ?  He  would  see,  the  more  to  prize.  What  waits  be- 
hind the  blue?  The  deities  one  loves?  **If  'tis  but  I  who  pass?  If 
naught  is  in  the  skies  ? '  * 

"Still  I  am  Icarus!  If  there  is  only  I,  I  love  myself.  0  then  to  pro- 
claim to  man,  'My  brother,  none  can  blaspheme,  except  against  himself. 
Great  sky,  if  each  is  his  own  god  can  men  not  love  each  other  ? '  " 

— And  his  waxen  wings  were  fused. — 0  deities  barbarous !  His  perish- 
able wings  Jove's  thunder-bolts  annul.  Go,  fall,  pursue  the  storm,  return, 
sweet  Icarus! — Let  us  mingle  tears  of  love  with  the  drops  innumerable. 

But  thou,  Greece,  land  of  gulfs  and  of  wings,  0  glorious  land !  limpid 
with  crystal  vales  that  softly  sheltered  lie,  fairer  in  pose  of  faith  vertigi- 
nous, doth  stand  forevermore  upraised  towards  the  azui-e  of  the  sky. 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  JASON 

Argo,  great  winged  ship,  shaped  for  adventurous  quest,  when  fifty 
mighty  sweeps  from  out  your  flanks  respired,  cleaving  air  and  reaping 
seas,  toward  your  far  goal  you  pressed,  and  fifty  heroes  bold  upon  youi; 
benches  choired. 

Was  Jason  drawn  by  you  or  was  it  he  who  led,  poised  on  the  prow, 
his  arms  crossed  on  the  Gorgon's  head,  parting  the  wine-dark  waves 
with  bent  glance  unafraid  that  sped  heroic  hearts  toward  glory's  acco- 
lade? 

Uplifted  on  your  keel  was  that  divining  tree,  Dodona's  oak,  O  Argo, 
that  made  your  mast.  Reared  high,  it  stabbed  with  bare,  lopped  trunk 
the  azure  of  the  sky.  Slitting  its  fragile  silk,  from  west  to  east  it 
passed. 

Black,  to  its  topmost  spar  athrill  with  strange  unrest,  it  offered  unto 
space  an  oracle  supreme,  demanding  access  there  for  man's  eternal 
dream,  and  all  the  sea  and  sky  unclosed  at  Jason's  hest. 

Climbing  the  mountainous  wave  it  seemed  as  if  you  flew,  soaring 
above  the  spray,  and  your  weight  cradling  you.    High  o'er  the  swollen 


48       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

sea  you  faced  the  tempest's  hiss.    Then  headlong  plunged  again,  whelmed 
in  a  green  abyss. 

Prom  wave  to  wave  you  went,  breasting  the  wind's  black  spate,  tra- 
versing azure,  reaping  seas,  o'er  foamy  summits  blown,  Argo,  great 
Avinged  ship,  designed  to  subjugate  the  uncharted  universe,  seas,  lands, 
and  skies  unknown. 

You  let  along  your  track  the  human  odour  float  from  bare  loins,  shoul- 
ders, arms,  bronze-lustred,  lithe  as  steel,  of  fifty  heroes  bent  above  your 
gliding  keel,  then  dazzling  with  raised  eyes  the  clouded  skies  remote. 

You  furrowed  virile  winds  that  glory 's  breath  outblew.  0  'er  his  great 
club  Hercules  dreamed,  at  the  base  of  the  druid  mast.  Orpheus  touched 
his  lyre,  'neath  heavens  obscure  and  vast,  and  sang  that  to  wanderers 
the  waves  of  stars  are  due. 

Jason  forsook  the  prow,  'mid  driving  vapors  dank,  and  saw  his  rowers' 
brows  rocked  to  that  rhythm  rare.  Castor  and  Pollux  there  swayed  in 
the  foremost  rank,  uniting,  like  two  flames,  the  beacons  of  their  hair. 

Deucalion,  Phalerus,  Theseus,  Amphidamus,  Iphis  and  Telamon,  Piri- 
thoiis,  Actor,  Mopsus,  Laocoon,  lolas  and  Lynceus,  Polyphemus,  Glaucus, 
Meleager,  Alector, 

the  race  of  giants  merged  with  the  offspring  of  the  gods,  young  men 
superb,  old  men  in  radiant  majesty,  sounders  of  each  abyss  of  the  soul 
or  of  the  clouds,  the  shepherd-boys,  the  poets,  the  warriors,  knee  to 
knee, 

those  who  had  plumbed  the  world  down  to  its  burning  mud,  the  con- 
querors of  the  Titans,  the  sons  of  Prometheus,  ravishers  of  red  flame, 
purgers  of  iron's  dross,  all  those  your  call,  stark  ship,  launched  on  the 
heaving  flood, 

Amphion,  Philoctetus,  Aneeus,  from  Neptune  sprung,  Anceus,  Lycur- 
gus'  son,  and  Aesculapius,  Oileus,  Argus,  Nauplius,  Augias,  bred  by  the 
sun,  Phlias  the  son  of  Bacchus,  Laertes,  Peleus, 

near  Cepheus,  that  stem  priest,  Almenus,  son  of  Mars,  young  Nestor, 


PAUL   FORT  49 

bent  to  greet  Atalanta  beauteous.    "With  one  accord  they  sang  above  their 
flying  oars,  the  heroic  burden  led  by  the  voice  of  Orpheus/ 

Orpheus  had  arisen,  you  voyaged  toward  azure  heaven.  Blue  ban- 
ners of  the  winds  clacked  at  your  masthead's  tip;  then  a  great  wave  of 
stars  by  the  lyre's  sweet  accents  driven,  upbore  you  to  the  sky  where 
still  you  bounded,  ship ! 

Force,  wisdom,  pride,  and  will,  by  obstacles  unbent,  in  dazzling  splen- 
dour glowed  heroic  brows  above,  and,  with  a  bound,  each  brow  upraised, 
magnificent,  the  insatiate  thirst  to  know  and  the  deep  desire  to  love. 

Across  the  starry  gulf  they  steered.  Dodona's  oak,  moistened  with 
cosmic  dew,  in  human  accents  spoke.  Amid  their  cloudy  hair,  the 
heroes,  as  they  flew,  felt  the  inchoate  birth  of  constellations  new. 

Eternal  gravitations  the  Argonauts  embrace.  Cadencing  hosts  of 
stars,  the  lyre  was  lifted  high.  No  more  could  Orpheus  doubt  the  sing- 
ing lyre  of  Thrace  was  the  sonorous  soul  and  centre  of  the  sky. 

Staunch  Tiphys  at  the  helm  sent  worlds  to  fly  like  foam,  eddying  down 
through  space,  still  other  worlds  to  lave.  Argus  and  Nauplius  bent, 
deciphering  each  wave.  Polyphemus  kneeled  to  night's  illimitable 
dome. 

Hercules  laughed  with  rage.  Swift  doom  he  fain  would  loose  on  the 
Olympian  gods  in  their  ingratitude,  since  Hera,  scoraful-eyed,  hailed 
him  as  demigod,  while  lightly  her  white  hand  caressed  his  cudgel,  Zeus. 

Iphis  and  Telamon,  toward  heaven's  dark  incubus  raising  their  eyes, 
in  the  zenith  their  valour's  goal  could  trace;  and,  amazed  at  the  great 
number  of  the  eyes  of  Uranus,  the  exhilarated  giants  toured  genially 
through  space. 

Aesculapius  and  Oileus  reframed  philosophies,  in  friendly  chat.  What 
words  sublime  and  strange  were  these?  Within  each  silver  beard  there 
rolled  a  starry  dew.    Atalanta  in  their  fires  annealed  her  darts  anew. 

With  deft,  creative  hands,  Deucalion  the  wuse,  moulding  the  luminous 
sleet  that  down  his  oar-blade  rolls,  fashioned  in  myriad  swarms  those 
silver  butterflies  that,  low  in  Theseus'  ear,  he  called  immortal  souls. 


60       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Pirithoiis,  laughing  loud,  stretched  forth  his  mighty  fists,  helfting  the 
stars  like  eggs,  orbed  Venus  rosy-hued,  irised  Juno,  Saturn  gold,  Mars 
ringed  with  whirling  mists  the  colour  of  the  moon,  Jupiter  red  as  blood. 

Regarding  Orpheus,  hearing  his  song's  exultant  swell,  AmphidamusI 
wept,  the  worthy,  susceptible  old  man.  The  agile  Meleager  up  to  the 
mast-head  ran,  there  to  refresh  his  hands  with  the  world  invisible. 

The  young,  mild  Nestor  whistled  a  tune  beneath  the  moon's  pale 
beam.  Those  stars  that  were  their  brows  the  Brethren  merged  in  one. 
The  pensive  Philoctetus  of  solitude  did  dream.  Augias  watched  the 
dawn,  being  blond  Apollo's  son. 

Towards  the  rounded  globe  of  Earth  the  eyes  of  Jason  strain,  spun  in 
a  god's  great  fist,  creation's  humble  cog.  He  gives  a  cry.  His  hands 
stretch  towards  the  furrowed  main,  where  famed  Atlantis  lifts  two  tri- 
angles of  fog. 

Its  sombre  forests  deep  indented  Europe  shows,  and  on  the  foamy  wave 
that  bathes  its  rugged  rim,  'tis  like  some  Stygian  night  'gainst  morn- 
ing's molten  glows.  Green  lakes  and  glacier-floes  illume  its  shadows 
dim. 

There  burning  Asia  rears  a  buckler  of  bright  gold.  The  mirrored 
isles  of  Greece,  a  flight  of  azure  bees,  plunge  thither.  And  above  the 
Afric  deserts  old,  he  sees  the  sand  storms  swirl  their  pillared  vortices. 

The  Sea  above  its  bounds  uplifts  an  azure  breast  where  the  fair  coral 
isles  like  scarlet  blood-drops  roll.  He  sees  the  Earth,  all  white,  as  if 
in  armour  dressed,  and  the  flaring  boreal  light  that  fans  the  frozen  pole. 

In  dizzying  bounds,  0  ship,  you  scaled  the  heavens'  blue  height. 
The  spheres  engulfed  themselves  in  your  wake's  unwavering  line.  The 
Milky  Way  gushed  forth  from  your  poop ;  and  gods  di\'ine  with  bludgeon- 
ing thunderbolts  delayed  your  deathless  flight. 

As  streaming  vapours  blend,  when  Boreas  pursues,  their  daunted  forms 
recoil  in  unaccustomed  fear.  Hera  expands  her  veils,  flushed  Ares  shakes 
his  spear,  and  fierce  the  lightnings  flare  in  the  bare  fist  of  Zeus. 


PAUL   FORT  61 

Hurled  from  his  brandished  fist,  a  sudden  bolt  of  fire  traversed  the 
seven  cords  that  laced  the  throbbing  lyre.  Oi-pheus  dropped  his  hands. 
'Midst  hootings,  Hercules,  seizing  her  pliant  bow  from  Atalanta's  knees, 

fired!  Reeking  comets  filled  the  ether.  Wild  with  pain  Hera  reeled 
back  through  space,  her  breast  all  blood-besprent.  Heaving  his  giant 
sledge  through  half  the  firmament,  Vulcan  smote  your  mounting  prow 
and  dashed  you  down  again. 

At  every  jutting  peak  a  planet  crystallised,  and  you  appeared,  brave 
ship,  with  shimmering  ice  endued.  You  stopped,  you  bounded  back  and 
left  emparadised,  a  new-born  constellation,  your  white  similitude. 

When  downward  you  returned  from  night's  profound  demesne,  proud 
hearts  ecstatic  beat  with  Olympus  dimly  seen.  When  'neath  your  plung- 
ing prow  the  white  foam  spattered  high,  the  phosphorescent  sea  was  like  a 
star-filled  sky. 

High  up  above  the  mast  each  pensive  hero  sees,  deep  in  celestial 
floods,  their  mirrored  vessel  bright.  In  the  fixed  eyes  of  Orpheus  gazed 
haggard  Hercules.    Great-hearted  Jason  turned  to  interrogate  the  night. 

Towards  what  goal  of  his  dream,  for  what  vow  of  his  soul,  had  you 
crossed  the  void  of  space,  0  buoyant  vessel  brave  ?  He  scanned  the  seas. 
The  sirens  that  sang  above  the  shoal  quenched  their  regards  and  songs 
beneath  the  sheltering  wave. 

Was  Jason  drawn  by  you,  or  was  it  he  who  led,  poised  on  the  prow, 
his  arms  crossed  on  the  gorgon  's  head,  parting  the  wine-dark  waves  with 
bent  glance  unafraid,  that  sped  heroic  hearts  toward  glory's  accolade? 

Fair  on  the  prow  was  Jason  in  that  effulgent  day,  with  lifted,  luminous 
arms  to  dawn 's  first  light  upborne.  0  'er  all  the  heroes '  brows  one  saw 
the  lightning  play.  And  Tiphys  steered  his  course  straight  toward  the 
roseate  morn. 

"Land!  Land!"  and  in  the  skies,  kindling  their  quiet  peace,  stretch- 
ing dishevelled  folds  towards  Jason's  hands,  there  lay,  billowing  o'er  all 
Asia  the  buniished  Golden  Fleece  .  .  .  Assembled  on  the  prow  which 
Btill  pursued  its  way. 


52       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Hercules  with  his  club,  with  his  wrecked  lyre  Orpheus  bold,  all  that 
heroic  crew  with  flashing  oars  outthrown,  and  Jason,  with  both  hands 
grasping  the  Fleece  of  Gold,  assaulting  heaven's  vault  rose,  and  soared 
toward  the  Unknown, 


SAILOR'S  LOVE. 

1900. 


THE  CORD. 

Why  knot  the  amoret  again?  Lass,  is  loving  worth  the  pain?  The 
hawser  has  been  snapped  in  two.  Who  pulled  too  hard  then?  Was  it 
you? 

Was  it  I  or  was  it  some  other  one?  The  good  god  of  the  Christians? 
Who  can  tell?  At  all  events  the  thing  was  done  through  nobody's  fault, 
one  knows  it  well. 

Into  so  many  hearts  love  slips !  His  cable  moors  so  many  ships,  and 
through  so  many  rings  is  passed!  Whose  fault  if  it  frays  and  breaks 
at  last? 

Too  many  an  amorous  man  and  maid  in  this  world  on  the  selfsame  sin 
do  strain.  And  is  it  love  that  is  to  blame  if  one  finds  his  cord  is  some- 
what frayed? 

Why  knot  the  amoret  again?  Lass,  is  loving  worth  the  pain?  The 
hawser  has  been  snapped  in  two.  Who  pulled  too  hard  ?  In  faith,  'twas 
you! 

A  SONG  OF  FATE. 

Life  is  short,  the  sea  is  wide,  my  sweet.  Our  eyes  will  rarely  meet  'tis 
plain.    I  am  no  sailor  incomplete.    Dead  calms  occur  upon  the  main. 

One  must  be  resigned. 

Life  is  short,  the  soa  is  wide. — And  so  this  scares  you?  Ah,  you  love 
but  me.    If  you  a  little  loved  the  sea  you  would  bid  me  go. 


PAUL   FORT  53 

One  must  be  resigned. 

One  must  submit  to  death,  nor  chide,  taking  it  like  your  love  for  me. 
Sweet,  life  is  short,  the  sea  is  wide,  and  what  must  be  must  be, 

One  must  be  resigned. 

Flat  calms  and  hurricanes  that  rave,  delays  and  distances  remote,  the 
sombre  shoal,  the  hungry  wave  that  gaping  will  engulf  my  boat. 

One  must  be  resigned. 

And  our  love  and  your  long  waiting  true  and  the  new  love  that  will 
come  to  you. 

YOU  CAN  DEPART.  .  .  . 

You  can  depart.  The  sadness  is  for  me.  What  do  you  care  that  I  'm 
no  longer  fair?  Forget  you?  Ah!  Our  youngsters  three  are  there. 
You  can  depart.    The  sadness  is  for  me. 

You  stay  despite  yourself.  Our  youngsters  three  resemble  you.  The 
sadness  is  for  me.  They  all  have  sombre  ej'es.  My  eyes  are  blue.  They 
kiss  me,  then  they  run  away.    Like  you ! 

You  can  depart.  Oh,  I  will  faithful  be!  You  can  depart.  Remem- 
brance is  for  me.  Go,  Jean,  another  love  awaits,  your  heart  to  snare. 
Go,  Jean,  my  husband,  go.    The  sea  is  very  fair. 

THE  KISSES. 

When  we  two  parted  never  a  word  was  spoken.  Almost  we  thought 
our  love  was  sheer  pretence.  The  silence,  long  drawn  out,  remained  un- 
broken.   One  would  have  said  it  was  indifference. 

Yet  our  embraces  had  been  warm  of  yore.  You  said  to  me,  "Five 
days."  We  thought  together.  ''Five  days  of  kisses,  they  are  quickly 
0  'er,    'Tis  like  a  fleeting  spell  of  sunny  weather, ' ' 

Tomorrow,  storm,  today,  blue  skies  adream.  One  must  not  ask  too 
much  of  love,  you  know.  And  then,  these  sailors,  always  on  the  go! 
Ships  touch  and  pass.  .  .  .  How  short  our  kisses  seem ! 


S4  SELECTED   POEMS   AND   BALLADS   OF 

SONG  OF  THE  SUNBURNED  SAILORS. 

To  the  sea  their  hearts  they  vow.  They  will  not  come  again.  And 
even  if  they  came  would  you  recognise  them  now  ? 

The  ocean  masks  a  man.  If  they  return  a  while,  we  know  not  if  they 
smile  or  weep  beneath  their  tan. 

Dothey  bring  back  their  souls?  No.  Still  at  sea  they  toil.  How  ard- 
ently it  rolls,  greedy  for  precious  spoil ! 

They  will  not  come  again.  They  choose  waste  seas  to  roam.  And 
even  if  they  came  would  they  have  really  come  ? 

THE  ONE-EYED  CAT. 

To  the  kelp  the  dame  is  gone,  in  Guiana  is  the  man,  and  the  little 
house  stands  alone  all  the  day. 

Alone?  Through  the  closed  green  blinds  in  the  darkness,  something 
shines  like  a  droplet  of  the  sea. 

When  the  prison  takes  the  man  the  ocean  claims  the  dame  and  the 
one-eyed  cat  owns  the  little  house  all  day. 

THE  CURfi  OF  LANGRUNE-SUR-MER. 

"When  the  fields  are  violet  with  heat  in  the  mid-autumn  evenings  fair 
the  cure  of  Langrune-sur-mer,  plump,  pensive  priest  with  ruddy  phiz, 
his  breviary  in  his  hand,  surveys  with  eyes  of  absinthe  sweet  the  violet, 
flower-besprinkled  land.  The  guest  of  the  parish  road  he  is,  rector  ro- 
tund who  lolls  at  ease,  and  till  that  hour  compassionate  when  twilight 
spills  abroad  its  dreams  a  bible  ambulant  he  seems,  who  drags,  with 
staid  and  pious  gait,  where  devastated  poplars  arch,  black  boots  and 
leaf-encumbered  march. 

The  priest  of  Langrune-on-the-sea,  I  have  seen  him.  He  has  conquered 
me.  It  is  my  whim  to  be  for  him,  Seigneur,  another  Lamartine.  His 
phiz  is  crimson  like  my  heart,  but  in  his  eyes  of  absinthe-green  I  have 
seen  an  ancient  anguish  start,  as  he  heaved  his  paunch  across  the  plain, 
ere  day's  last  glimmerings  were  dead.  In  his  eyes,  pale,  moist,  and 
clear,  I  read  regret  and  longing  for  the  main.  This  little  round  cure— 
Ah,  I  am  sly,  you  see.    Now  did  I  guess  it  pray?    Did  someone  tell  it 


PAUL   FORT  55 

me? — wished  at  sixteen,  a  lad  of  grace,  a  sailor's  calling  to  embrace,  this 
little,  round  cure. 

I  would  have  you  watch  with  me  his  eyes,  the  hue  of  day,  when  at  dusk 
he  hears  the  sea,  to  watch  the  tender  ray  of  his  glance  when,  rapt,  he 
hears  the  sea  climb  sombre  lands,  on  his  cheeks  and  priestly  bands  to 
catch  the  glint  of  tears,  when  he  sees  its  whiteness  dim  o'er  ploughed 
fields.  Left  and  right,  hat  and  breviary  fly  to  strew  the  roadside  herb. 
In  the  furrows  fast  he  flees,  his  white  hair  in  the  breeze,  his  eyes  ablaze 
with  light,  towards  the  flood  that  summons  him,  that  he  craves  all  things 
above,  this  little,  round  cure  in  his  lunacy  superb ! 

And  you  would  know  that  day  how  great  a  thing  is  love. 

THE  SNUFF-TAKER. 

With  melancholy  gaze  fixed  on  the  distant  sails,  the  poor  old  crone 
inhales  the  pinch  that  comfort  gives,  and,  as  her  snuff  she  sniffs,  inhales 
the  breeze  as  well,  breathes  the  offing  and  the  spray  and  all  the  memories 
sere  in  ocean's  depths  that  dwell,  the  love  she  cherished  once,  lulled  to 
rest  its  weeds  among,  her  smoke-dried  mariner  who  has  gone  to  Davy 
Jones. 

Ah,  the  snuff,  the  pungent  air,  titillate  all  her  soul  and  a  vanished 
time  recall,  deep  in  her  life  entombed,  the  memory  of  a  day  drowned 
in  the  depth  of  days,  the  day  the  plighted  pair,  robust  beneath  the  rib- 
bons, among  their  wedding  guests,  seated  and  drinking  sweet,  the  open 
snuff-box  passed,  an  heirloom  of  their  race,  wrought  from  the  fragrant 
wood  by  a  carver  of  figureheads. 

All  that  her  life  has  known  is  regret  and  bitterness,  yet  the  first  of 
Fortune's  smarts,  the  husband  self-immei*sed,  children  that  had  no 
hearts!  To  be  beaten,  sweet  it  is  when  one  loves  the  hand  that  smites, 
...  by  a  husband,  by  a  son,  but  by  one's  own  flesh  and  blood.  'Tis  still 
sweet,  it  is  they !  But  how  when  they  are  gone  ?  If  prayer  like  arid  sand 
is  only  bitterness  to  the  mouth,  all  creased  and  lined  from  too  much 
praying  God,  then  little  human  means  come  to  bring  consolation,  to- 
bacco by  the  waves :  old  memories  .  .  .  she  sniffs. 

Ah,  my  God!  'Tis  sweet  to  rest,  crinkling  her  nose  in  dream,  her 
poor  old- woman's  nose  that  formerly  was  fair,  and  to  be  borae  awav 


56       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

upon  the  -wings  that  spread  from  out  the  ancient  brain  cased  in  that 
scarred,  gray  head.  Here  she  received  a  blow  from  her  grown  son,  ah, 
ya-yaie !  there  from  her  wedded  spouse,  the  temple  was  his  choice,  there 
from  Marie- Annette,  so  big,  her  littlest  one !  and  there  from  Marie-Jean, 
the  child  she  loved  the  best. 

And  then,  what  would  you  have?  What  to  do  beneath  the  sun? 
Gather  the  slimy  help?  'Twere  better  far  to  beg.  For  whom  then 
should  one  keep  one's  dignity  antique?  'Tis  not  for  the  good  God  who 
has  left  you  thus  alone.  Two  sous,  three  sous,  four  sous,  that  in  your 
basket  toss  Parisian  demi-mondes  in  the  good  months,  toil's  reward. 
Slight  wind-falls  such  as  these,  one  knows  the  end  thereof.  Two  sous 
for  the  Eucharist  and  two  to  spend  for  snuff. 

SONG  AT  DAWN. 

Where  then  is  my  pain?  I  have  no  more  pain.  Where  then  is  my 
love?    Naught  I  reck  thereof. 

On  the  sweet  strand  withdrawn,  in  this  hour's  serenity,  in  the  inno- 
cence of  dawn,  0  the  distant  sea! 

Where  then  is  my  pain?  I  have  no  more  pain.  Where  then  is  my 
love?    Naught  I  reck  thereof. 

Waves  of  ribbons  bright,  breeze  from  out  the  main,  waves  of  ribbons 
bright  twixt  my  fingers  white. 

Where  then  is  my  love?  I  have  no  more  pain.  Where  then  is  my 
pain  ?    Naught  I  reck  thereof. 

O'er  heaven's  pearly  way  dreaming  eyes  pursue  a  sea-gull's  plumage 
gray,  all  shining  with  the  dew. 

I  have  no  more  pain.  Where  then  is  my  love?  Where  then  is  my 
pain?    I  have  no  more  love. 

In  the  innocent  dawn,  0  the  distant  sea!  'Tis  but  a  murmuring  at 
the  margin  of  the  sun. 

Where  then  is  my  pain?  I  have  no  more  pain.  'Tis  but  a  murmur- 
ing at  the  margin  of  the  sun. 


PAUL   FORT  57 

PARIS  SENTIMENTAL 
OR 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  OUR  TWENTIETH  YEAR. 
1902. 


Extracts  from  the  First  Book. 

I. 

THE  MEETING. 

(Boulevard  Sebastopol.) 

Dawn  tints  the  earth  with  rose,  and  all  the  balconies'  gold  palimpsest. 
'Tis  the  boulevard  Sebastopol.  On  the  sky-line  glooms  the  gare  de 
I'Est. 

All  night  I  must  have  tramped  the  mire,  an  airing  to  my  griefs  to 
give.    No  longer  did  I  care  to  live.    Then  to  catch  cold  was  my  desire. 

Sunlight  at  heart,  'tis  a  romance !  Well,  my  heart  is  warmed  again,  I 
find.  I  have  seen,  in  a  heaven  blue-of-France,  the  wandering  clouds,  all 
crimson-lined. 

In  rose  I  see  black  buildings  high.  The  trees  are  rose,  the  air  is  rose. 
It  has  rained,  and  all  the  roofs  are  rose.  The  pavement  mirrors  back 
the  sky. 

I  hear  my  heart.  The  sun's  gold  ball  mounts.  Chestnut-trees  are 
flowering  bright  on  the  boulevard  Sebastopol  grown  infinitely  pure  and 
light. 

All  gleams,  the  gare  de  I'Est  itself,  the  puddle  that  I  splatter  through. 
I  laugh,  as  does  that  little  elf  with  rosy  mud  upon  her  shoe. 


58       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

I'm  cold  no  more.  I  laugh,  I  run.  How  brisk  one  feels  at  dawn  of 
day!  And  I  pursue  a  little  fay  who  wades  through  pools  of  dazzling 
sun. 

There's  no  more  thought  of  dying  now.  Dawn!  And  I  see  the  gold 
signs  flare.  I  see  flushed  trees  and  crimsoned  air,  and,  aglow,  my  heart 
to  you  I  vow, 

0  little  maiden,  splashing  gay  through  the  roses  of  the  Boulevard, 
and  I  forget,  dawn's  little  fay,  all  evening's  daughters,  grim  and  hard. 

A  kiss,  yes!  and  I  give  you  all  the  roses  on  the  soil's  fair  breast,  and 
the  balconies'  gold  palimpsest,  and  the  boulevard  Sebastopol,  on  the 
horizon  the  gave  de  I'Est! 

Triumph !  ...  as  that  sweet  kiss  I  take  each  building  to  its  roof -tree 
glows. ^Will  you  accept,  for  a  poet's  sake,  Paris,  that  wondrous,  burn- 
ing rose  ? 

and  the  Victory's  gold  wings  above  the  fountain  of  the  Chatelet? 
Two  crowns  to  deck  the  primrose-way,  if  you  but  willed  it,  of  our  love? 


II. 

FIRST  APPOINTMENT. 

(Monge   Square.) 

Intoxication  of  spring !  The  plot  of  grass  is  whirling  round  the  statue 
of  Voltaire. — In  the  green  dress  vernal  sunbeams  bring,  'tis  an  idyllic 
spot,  Monge  Square:  green  grass,  green  gratings,  benches  green,  green 
guardian.  In  warm  sunlight  swirled,  'tis  a  fair  corner  of  the  world.— 
Intoxication  of  spring!  The  plot  of  grass  is  whirling  round  the  statue 
of  Voltaire. 

And  birds  are  thronging  through  the  branches  pale  where  heaven 
unfolds  its  flowers  of  blue.— The  pigeons  love  with  tender  coo.  The 
sparrows  flirt  a  jaunty  tail.    I  wait.    What  happiness  I  gain  in  this 


PAUL   FORT  50 

delay's  delicious  pain !  I  am  gay.  I  am  mad !  A  lover  time ! — And  birds 
are  thronging  through  the  branches  pale  where  heaven  unfolds  its  flow- 
ers of  blue. 

Upon  a  bench  the  hue  of  hope  I  mount,  or  rather  poise  with  balanced 
stance,  o'er  the  arches  of  the  gay  parterre,  before  the  statue  of  Voltaire. 
Long  life  to  all,  to  me,  to  France!  In  my  breast  springs  hope's  eternal 
fount.  I  have  the  wings  of  young  romance. — To  quit  the  earth  upon  a 
bench  I  mount,  or  rather  poise  with  balanced  stance. 

"At  one,"  she  said.  It  is  no  more  than  noon.  To  those  who  love  the 
hour  is  fleet. — Birds  sing.  The  languid  sun-beams  swoon.  Each  time 
that  Eve  and  Adam  meet  they  need  a  paradise  complete.  The  omnibus, 
in  torpid  state,  muses  on  this  beyond  the  gate. — "At  one,"  she  said.  It 
is  no  more  than  noon.    To  those  who  love  the  hour  is  fleet. 

Before  the  statue,  two  eats,  tawny  and  white — and  one  is  a  she,  the 
tawny  one, — roll,  tumble  on  the  sunny  lawn,  cuff  at  each  other  miaul 
and  fight.  The  sunlight  amplifies  your  smile,  0  mild  Voltaire,  my  worthy 
faun. — Before  your  statue  two  cats,  tawny  and  white,  roll  and  tumble 
on  the  sunny  lawn. 

To  the  song  of  birds  the  trees  put  forth  their  leaves.  I  feel  the  bud 
of  my  heart  unfold ! — And  I  tremble  only  to  behold  the  diamonds  that 
the  sprinkler  sprays  o'er  the  grass,  a  haze  of  droplets  fine.  A  rainbow 
leaves  the  sage's  spine  and  through  a  spreading  chestnut  weaves. — To 
the  song  of  birds  the  trees  put  forth  their  leaves.  I  feel  the  bud  of  my 
heart  unfold! 

The  azure  flames.  'Neath  the  bench  where  the  guardian  sleeps,  a  dog 
sniffs  a  dog  with  quivering  nose. — Her  skipping-rope  a  school-girl  leaps. 
At  her  heels  come  others,  rows  on  rows.  The  concourse  of  their  shadows 
sweeps  now  large,  now  small,  along  the  ground,  while  rivalling  voices 
chant  the  round:  "Little  flame!  Great  flame!  'Tis  to  light  the  Blessed 
Name !  * ' — The  azure  flames.  'Neath  the  bench  where  the  guardian  sleeps 
a  dog  sniffs  a  dog  with  quivering  nose. 

Here  is  the  vendor  of  cocoa  musical.  Charged  with  gold  taps  he  comes 
before  us.  His  taps  are  gleaming  serpents  all  whence  squirts  his  bever- 
age sonorous  in  cups  the  clamouring  children  hold.  Our  appetite  let  us 
content.     Quick,  of  your  brew  a  penny-worth,  dazzling  Laocoon!     I 


60       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

toast  all  Nature  and  the  teeming  earth.  I  toast  thy  bronze  ebullient, 
thou  who  art  smiling  at  me  there,  good,  old  Voltaire,  sly,  genial  host. — 
Here  is  the  vendor  of  cocoa  musical.    His  taps  are  gleaming  serpents  all. 

Ah,  Spring,  what  fire  arises  from  the  ground!  "What  fire  descends 
from  heavens  fair! — Before  the  statue  of  Voltaire  I  await  my  Manon, 
newly  found.  And  yet,  though  she  is  late,  Voltaire  still  sits  urbanely 
pondering.  I  follow  his  regard  to  where  an  Easter  daisy  breaks  the  turf. 
I  wait — I  wait,  0  heaven!  I  wait,  0  earth!  I  wait  'neath  all  the  flames 
of  Spring. 

'Tis  two  o'clock.  Let  us  pluck  this  marguerite.  "A  little,  much,  most 
passionately.  ..."  Most  passionately,  Manon,  be  fleet!  Come  soon, 
come  soon,  I  beg  of  thee. — Cynic  you  smile  at  me  as  though  scant  content 
to  my  soul  to  bring.  Wretched  encyclopaedist! — 0!  .  .  .  She  comes 
'neath  all  the  flames  of  Spring !  ,  .  . 

And  the  trees  revolve,  and  all  the  grass-plot  turns  around  the  statue 
of  Voltaire. — In  its  tender  greenness,  one  discerns  'tis  a  delicious  spot, 
Monge  Square.  Green  grass,  green  gratings,  benches  green,  green  guar- 
dian. In  warm  sunlight  swirled  'tis  a  fair  corner  of  the  world. — I  mount 
a  bench  the  hue  of  true  romance.  They  must  see  me  now  from  every 
nook  in  France  1 


ON  THE  PONT  AU  CHANGE. 

(On  the  evening  of  a  quarrel  with  Manon.) 

They  are  selling  flowers  tonight  the  Pont  au  Change  along.  The  air 
with  every  gust  distills  the  tube-rose  balm  blent  with  the  scent  of  dust. 
Tomorrow  is  the  day  to  the  Virgin  sanctified.  An  hour  all  golden-bright 
streams  through  depths  of  western  sky  and  sheds  a  tawny  light  amidst 
the  sauntering  throng.  One  sees  the  troubled  stir  of  the  place  du  Clidte- 
let  where  crowded  street-cars  glide,  where  hansoms  jolt  and  sway.  From 
a  square  that  sprinklers  spray  a  light  mist  mounts  on  high  to  undulate 


PAUL   FORT  61 

and  blur  the  soaring  Tour  Saint-Jacques.    The  air  with  every  gust  dis- 
tills the  tube-rose  balm  blent  with  the  scents  of  dust. 

Upon  the  perfumed  bridge  I  wander  with  the  throng.  Roses  and  pinks 
that  ridge  the  concrete  railings  long,  in  odorous  cascade  come  tumbling  to 
the  street  to  mix  their  petals  sweet  with  the  wheels'  slow  cavalcade,  in 
whirling  spokes  enwound,  with  skirts  that  brush  the  ground,  with  the 
heedless  rush  of  feet. 

Seven  strokes  will  shortly  sound  from  the  clock  of  the  Palais.  O'er 
Paris  roofs  the  west  is  like  a  lake  of  gold.  A  dubious  storm  doth  scold 
from  out  the  cloudy  east.  The  air  is  warm  in  gusts.  And  thinking  of 
Manon  I  sigh,  and  sigh  again.  The  air  is  wann  in  gusts,  and  rocks 
the  ample  smell  of  flowers  my  feet  have  crushed,  and  I  sigh  to  but  be- 
hold fresh,  violet  currents  run  'neath  the  arch  of  the  Pont  Neuf  under 
the  dying  sun.  ' '  Manon,  your  heart  can  say  if  I  have  loved  you  well  1 '  * 
Thunder  growls  from  far  away.    The  air  is  warm  in  gusts. 

Between  the  pots  of  flowers,  the  sheaves,  the  fresh  bouquets,  and  each 
glimmering  aperture  of  the  balustrades,  one  sees  a  sluggish  river  glide 
'neath  glints  of  sombre  gold.  It  seems  as  though  the  Seine,  oppressed, 
were  soon  to  die  with  the  passing  of  the  sun  whither  turns  its  yearning 
tide.  Its  troubled  water  rolled  in  violet  agonies  bears  far  the  rosy 
sprays  dropped  from  the  parapets.  From  the  sun  that  sets  in  pain  a 
final,  feverish  ray  twixt  the  still  quays  doth  touch  the  wideness  of  the 
Seine.  With  its  burning  pulse  it  beats  each  little  wave  that  sighs.  Dis- 
consolate I  lean  on  the  railing  of  the  quay.  The  air  surcharged  with 
sweets  is  full  of  memories  and  my  thought  is  of  Manon  who  has  made 
me  bear  so  much. 

What  starry  ray  doth  glint  o'er  the  Louvre  where,  far  away,  heaven 
still  preserves  the  tint  of  hope?  Ah,  now  I  guess.  Manon  sang  of  it  of 
yore :  "  It  is  the  star  of  love.  Do  men  and  maids  that  yearn,  there,  on  high, 
love  evermore  ?  .  .  . "  You  burn  through  flowing  tears,  Venus,  with  dia- 
mond sheen,  but  a  dark  smoke  comes  between,  j'our  image  fair  to  blast,  as 
a  bitter  present  conceals  a  happy  past.  What  matter  to  the  smoke  the 
tears,  the  wretchedness  of  lovers  sad  who  lean  on  the  parapet  at  eve.  "I 
will  make  fast  my  heart  'gainst  all  the  dreams  that  grieve. ' '  What  though 
a  starry  dew  envelopes  all  the  night  or  the  swart  tempest's  gloom  dusks 
heavens  of  apple-green.    Nothing  can  touch  the  heart  that  beats  for  self 


62       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

alone.  Once  Manon  sang  to  me  "Love  is  ephemeral."  "Even  as  yonr 
beauty  is,"  I  answered,  "and  your  flesh,  ..."  Swift  doom  will  blight 
these  flowers  that  tremble  'neath  the  stonn.  Heaven  thunders,  lightnings 
flare.    I  feel  my  strength  return. 

0  downpour  grave,  austere,  where  mounts  the  soul  of  stones,  and 
which,  in  plashing  zones,  diffuses  frigid  light,  congeal  my  soul  on  fire, 
render  my  heart  severe,  impose  your  freshness  sweet  on  the  hands  I 
hold  to  you!  The  rain  a  little  clears.  Its  force  declines  ...  I  wait. 
.  .  .  What!  The  full  moon  appears?  "What!  The  clouds  are  passed 
and  gone  ?  What !  All  the  heavens  in  bloom  ?  And  the  air  with  every 
gust  distills  the  tube-rose  balm,  roses,  and  pinks,  and  dust?  A  star  of 
love  doth  soar  above  the  Louvre?  I  buy  bouquets  in  goodly  store,  laugh 
from  my  heart's  ripe  core.  What!  Am  I  a  brain-sick  child?  And  to 
Manon  I  fly,  my  arms  with  roses  piled,  her  pardon  to  implore. 


BULLIER. 

Pals  of  an  hour,  lovers'  content,  pocket-book  and  sentiment. 

Bullier  whose  splendour  Ottoman,  adorned  with  globed  electric  lights, 
a  bevy  of  fair  maids  delights  from  the  Tavern  of  the  Pantheon,  the  East 
for  twenty  cents  displayed,  each  odalisque  in  Avhose  hareem  for  a  five 
franc  piece  may  be  seen,  save  when  the  Lenten  world  repents,  Bullier 
in  gay  mode  Ottoman  makes  welcome  all  the  sentiments  that  stir  the 
pulsing  youth  of  France  'neath  its  electric  colonnade. 

Loves  of  a  year,  loves  of  a  night,  pals  of  an  hour  or  an  instant  slight, 
fancies  of  students,  passion-bent,  the  whims  of  future  notaries, — pocket- 
book  and  sentiment,  young  process-servers'  lunacies!  if  this  should  last 
one's  life  entire  would  one's  good  parents  be  content? — Hark  to  that 
churl  in  passion's  fire:  the  lightning  stroke,  to  die  thereof,  that  old 
quack-doctor  who'd  aspire  to  little  Esmeralda's  love.  "Dost  thou  re- 
member when  they  played  "Espafia"  since  that  hour  malign  my  heart 
bleeds  ..."  We  may  well  opine  the  doctor  will  not  die  of  it.  Later  'tis 
we  the  world  will  quit  seared  by  the  lightning  of  his  trade. — Pals  of  an 
hour,  lovers'  content,  pocket-book  and  sentiment. — And  the  prizes  of  the 
lotteries:  Venus'  loveliest  devisings:  these  glorious  passions  of  a  year, 
and  the  sizings,  the  sizings,  like  the  sweet  butter  that  they  smear  baby's 


PAUL   FORT  63 

wlieaten  slice  above,  the  sizings  that  each  day  we  shear  from  the  soft 
loaf  of  love! 

I  shine  at  Bullier,  Passion's  bard,  I,  Grand-I^Iaster  of  Sentiment. 
There  I  bring  my  hat  a  la  Rembrandt  and  my  cravat  of  dark  foulard 
where  gleams  a  Caesar's  effigy  and  my  frock-coat  such  as  one  might  see 
on  a  Berlioz  or  Delacroix  or  an  1830  Hamlet,  fain  to  the  Courtille  to 
fetch  his  pain,  and  my  indolent  acridity  to  seek  Manon  who  flies  from 
me.  She  sees  my  shade  on  the  stair  extend  when  black  in  Bullier,  I 
descend,  dragged  at  my  heels  as  if  'twould  be  the  mantle  of  Mounet- 
Sullyl 

The  East  for  twenty  cents  displayed  each  odalisque  in  whose  hareem 
for  a  five  franc  piece  may  be  seen,  save  when  the  Lenten  world  repents, 
Bullier  in  gay  mode  Ottoman  makes  welcome  all  the  sentiments  that 
stir  the  pulsing  youth  of  France  'neath  its  electric  colonnade. — Naught 
of  the  music  I  have  said. 

Yet  it  is  sweet  tonight.  It  earns  a  place.  I  must  not  leave  it  out. 
They  play  "Espaiia"  and  the  rout  of  Bullier  all  about  me  turns,  or 
ought  to  turn  beyond  a  doubt.  But  breast  to  breast,  limb  brushing 
limb,  the  muses  of  the  Pantheon,  with  painters'  botching  'prentices  or 
blackamoors  of  all  degrees  (as  with  embryo  sen^ants  of  the  State  whom 
seats  in  Parliament  await) ,  mechanically  are  Bostonning.  A  dance  pre- 
cise as  cudgelling.  Arms  stiffly  held,  like  levers  staid.  No  more  the 
terpsichorean  wealth,  impetuous  bound,  heroic  spring,  kick  to  unhook 
the  moon  on  high !  But  the  air  of  having  not  the  air.  One  is  American, 
my  dear.  And  why  increase  the  pace  at  all?  One  is  not  epileptical. 
"Shun,  shun  hysterics!"  is  the  cry.  **  'Neath  the  electric  colonnade  one 
caters  to  one's  precious  health. 

Manon  takes  her  fill  of  joy,  alone,  beneath  her  hat  of  roses  white. 
From  arm  to  arm  she  passes  on.  She  whirls,  half-swooning  with  delight. 
Each  that  desires  her  favour  wins.  'Tis  that  one  sweeps  her  off  her 
feet,  and  round  the  pair  the  ball-room  spins.  Useless  to  aid  her.  Fhing 
fleet,  already  other  arms  have  clasped  her.  Her  charms  a  negro's  arms 
eclipse,  whom  amorous  tremblings  overmaster.  A  kiss  from  those  full, 
blubber-lips  .  .  .  and  Manon  lifts  her  eyes  of  blue  towards  a  brow  enor- 
mous that  displays  round  beads  of  s\veat,  a  gleaming  dew.  "A  negro's 
kiss,  this  one  repays!  They  say  felicity  'twill  bring."  Manon  hoists 
herself  to  tip-toes'  height  and  gives  her  lovely  head  a  toss  that  some- 


64       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OP 

what  lifts  the  roses  white,  drooping,  Ophelia-like,  across  dishevelled  hair. 
A  woolly  head  bends  'neath  the  nails  of  fingers  ten,  and,  with  pursed, 
heart-shaped  lips,  Manon  impairs  her  mouth's  fictitious  red  on  that 
enormous,  sweating  brow,  * '  Good !  I  will  pay  my  homage  now  to  your 
fair  eyes,  Jeanne  la  Roquine. — Have  you  seen  her  'gainst  her  negro 
there?  What,  must  one  dote  on  blacking  then? — Courage,  'tis  but  a 
silly  prank. — Sweet  child,  I  know  the  charm  I  lack.  'Tis  but  my  gar- 
ments that  are  black.    All  negroes  boast  a  sultan 's  rank. 

Pals  of  an  hour,  lovers'  content,  pocket-book  and  sentiment.  Her© 
blacks  obtain  a  sultan's  power. 

Jeanne  la  Roquine,  come,  leave  the  throng  and  sit  beside  this  charm- 
ing hedge. — Thanks!  Poetry  sets  my  teeth  on  edge. — Tender  heart,  do 
you  think  I  read  you  wrong?  Your  ruddy  hair  is  ravishing.  Come 
'neath  the  gi'Ot ;  'tis  sombre  blue.  .  .  .  Your  fingers  steal  to  my  cravat  ? 
I  'm  no  tame  pigeon.  None  of  that !  Drop  your  paws,  Roquine.  No,  let 
them  be.  Beneath  your  snowy  fingers,  see,  my  Caesar  sparkles  in  the 
gloom.    Past  praising  is  your  deathly  hue. ' ' 

In  the  room  a  pistol  shot  rings  out.  **  Roquine,  do  you  smell  the 
powder-reek?"  But  still  Roquine  is  pale  of  cheek.  More  pallors  come, 
in  ghastly  rout,  amid  the  murmuring  crowd  to  spread,  now  in  mid- 
Boston  halted  dead,  with  the  orchestra's  arrested  bows,  gesticulations 

stopped  in  air You  were  there?    You  saw  it,  I  suppose.     What 

occurred? — Miserere.  Be  it  so!  'Tis  that  old  pseudo-medico  who  killed 
himself  in  his  despair. — Ah,  'tis  no  every-day  affair. — There  by  the 
shooting-booth  he  bleeds  .  .  .  His  cocktail  was  but  half  consumed.  Es- 
meralda drank  a  gin.  They  called  each  other  names  obscene. — To 
thoughts  of  death  my  soul  was  bowed  but  aloud  the  epigram  I  spoke 
which  suited  the  occasion's  needs. — "You  have  it  there,  the  lightning- 
stroke.  You  said  beside  the  shooting-booth  he  bled?  His  shot  is  paid, 
in  truth." — "Esmeralda  drank  a  gin.  They  called  each  other  names 
obscene.  This  piques  my  curiosity,"  suddenly  cried  Jeanne  la  Roquine 
and  towards  the  shooting-booth  took  flight. — When  I  arrived  beside  the 
blood  among  the  foremost  Manon  stood.  Then  I  saw  her  nodding  roses 
white  above  a  smile  of  artless  youth. 

Loves  of  a  year,  loves  of  a  night,  loves  of  an  hour  or  an  instant  slight. 
'Neath  its  electric  colonnade  Bullier,  in  gay  mode  Ottoman,  makes  wel- 
come all  the  sentiments  that  stir  the  pulsing  youth  of  France. 


PAUL   FORT  65 

Extracts   from 

THE  BOHEMIA  OF  THE  HEART 

and 

PENNY  ROMANCES. 


MY  PORTRAIT. 

My  eyes  like  two  black  diamonds  shine  'neath  my  Rembrandt  hat. 
The  coat  I  choose  is  wrought  of  raven  broadcloth  fine,  and  jet-black  are 
my  polished  shoes. 

Black  locks  profuse  'round  pallid  chaps,  long  Valois  nose  that  droops 
askance.    A  hint  of  mockery,  perhaps.    The  rigid  pose  of  arrogance. 

Ironic  smile  and  frank  regard  (Nature,  you  also  love  to  mock!)  and 
the  air  of  biting  something  hard  when  with  a  scheming  knave  I  talk. 

Before  the  church  of  Saint-Germain,  my  shade  beneath  its  steps  supine, 
at  times  to  watch  the  Louvre  I'm  fain,  sad  in  the  sunset's  slow  decline. 

A  king  I  should  have  loved  to  be :  some  luckless  Louis  XIII,  no  doubt. 
— He's  sly,  indeed,  who'd  ferret  out  the  sentimental  poet  in  me. 

Yet  for  me,  alas,  as  for  all  the  rest,  God  fashioned  a  heart.  Our 
Heavenly  Sire,  creating  all  things,  loves  to  jest  and  seals  in  ice  a  raging 
fire. 

All  the  sounding  lyres  of  earth  I  need.  The  human  soul  I  make  my 
creed.  My  mind's  an  alembic.  Gold  is  mixed  there  with  blood,  with 
roses  and  with  Shakespeare. 

MEUDON. 

The  blue  eyes  of  a  Clementine,  her  white  arms  raised,  in  brilliant  light, 
to  greet  each  spray  of  hawthorn  white,  the  morn  of  young  love's  golden 
prime. 


66       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

the  smng,  the  bowers  where  roses  twine,  someone  that  whistles  in 
the  oats,  our  ravenous  bites,  your  little  slaps,  the  chuckling  gurgle  of 
red  wine, 

on  the  cloth  a  ray  of  dazzling  sun,  the  clink  of  forks,  the  gay  romance 
sung  by  a  young  Italian  who  gazes  skyward  while  he  chants ; 

the  wood  that  spreads  an  azure  gloom,  our  good  naps  of  the  after- 
noon, your  soft  hand  o  'er  my  heart  that  broods,  chance  wakings,  tender 
attitudes, 

the  return,  to  the  echo  of  our  feet,  your  burdened  breast,  your  sigh- 
ings  sweet,  and  Nature  that  unfolds  its  charms  and  flowers,  delicious 
as  your  arms, 

o'er  a  ruined  wall  the  sunset  dying  (0  the  ivy  of  Bas-Meudon!)  the 
darkling  path  that  ends  so  soon,  the  Seine,  the  fish,  potatoes  frying, 

green  skies  where  one  faint  star  intrudes.  Saint  Cloud  illuming,  our 
regret,  visions  of  the  pale  path  that  yet  might  reconduct  us  to  the  woods, 

(it  leads  us  home,  day  fades  amain) — the  scent  as  from  a  milky  udder 
of  summack,  windows  of  a  train  that  flashes  past,  your  little  shudder ; 

the  spring,  our  love,  your  faith,  my  vows,  tears  and  romances,  pace 
by  pace,  the  dusk  beneath  the  forest  boughs,  the  silence  of  our  long 
embrace, 

ah,  foolishness,  one's  heart  to  pain  with  vanished  things  that  now  are 
not,  woes  that  our  dreams  alone  retain  and  that  already  are  forgot  I 


THE  GREAT  DRUNKENNESS. 

Through  the  blue  summer  nights  when  the  cicadas  sing,  God  over 
France  a  cup  o'er-brimmed  with  stars  doth  pour.  A  taste  of  summer 
skies  to  my  lips  the  breezes  bring!  I  fain  would  drink  all  space,  so 
freshly  silvered  o'er. 


PAUL   FORT  67 

A  goblet's  frigid  rim  is  evening's  air  to  me,  whence,  with  my  eyes 
half-closed,  I  quaff  with  greedy  zest,  like  to  the  cooling  juice  from  a 
pomegranate  pressed,  starred  freshness  slow  diffused  from  heaven's  im- 
mensity. 

Couched  on  a  velvet  sward,  whose  grasses  warm  betray  how  they  had 
sprawled  at  ease  beneath  the  breath  of  day,  0  I  Avould  drain  tonight 
with  what  divine  content,  the  cup  immense  and  blue  where  wheels  the 
firmament ! 

Am  I  Bacchus?  Am  I  Pan?  I  tipple  space.  Elate,  with  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  nights  I  slake  my  fever-fit,  my  mouth  agape  to  heaven  where 
planets  scintillate.    0,  let  heaven  flow  in  me  or  let  me  melt  in  it ! 

With  their  inebriate  souls  in  heaven's  starred  cup  immersed,  Byron 
and  Lamartine,  Hugo  and  Shelly  died.  Yet  changeless  space  is  there. 
It  rolls  creation-wide.  Scarce  drunk  it  bears  me  hence,  and  I  was  still 
athirst ! 


HYMNS  OF  FLAME. 
Followed  by  LUCIENNE,  little  lyric  romance. 
1903. 


THE  DOLPHIN. 


Take  me,  0  sea!  1  plunge.  My  suit  do  not  contemn!  Of  metamor- 
phosis you  own  the  magic  spark?  How  happy  I  should  be  if,  by  a 
strategem,  I  went  to  join  the  troop  of  supple  dolphins  dark.  Lend  me 
their  breath,  their  eyes,  like  tropic  waters  blue,  that  underneath  your 
waves  with  sight  undimmed  can  glide,  and,  that  I  may  disport  with 
greater  ease  in  you,  of  a  voluptuous  form  the  sleek  and  sinuous  hide. 

I  leap  the  waves,  I  toy  with  every  foaming  crest.  But  'tis  the  tem- 
pest's surge  that  crowns  my  heart's  desire.  In  the  hollow  of  its  swell 
towards  heaven's  high  portals  pressed,  to  slither  back,  enmeshed  in 
flakes  of  humid  flre!  .  .  .  The  storai  still  hangs  aloof.  I  must  await  its 
call.    Patient  I'll  be,  0  waves.    My  live  caresses  thus  you  will  repay 


68       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

again  in  tliat  moment  prodigal.    And  my  white  breast  shall  be  your 
mistress  amorous. 

On  the  surface  now  I  swim,  my  skin  with  sunbeams  bright.  Like 
fronds  of  silver  wrack  my  furrow  follows  me.  I  abandon  it  and  plunge 
and  go  to  find  the  night.  But  the  sun's  wheel  still  turns  in  depths  of 
tossing  sea.  With  the  sun's  wheel  I  turn  beneath  the  surges  there,  and 
reascend  to  day.  I  am  here,  my  skin  ashine.  Shivers  of  happiness  make 
langorous  my  spine.  The  wave  respires  beneath.  0,  but  the  sky  is 
fair! 

Sweet  flying-fish  that  skim  above  my  head  demure,  with  vivid  light- 
ning-flares you  streak  heaven 's  azure  dome.  Transparent  o  'er  the  bones 
I  watch  you  go  and  come.  I  have  good  eyes  for  you  and  sudden  gapings 
sure.  Snap !  There  are  pleasures  rare  in  the  sky  and  on  the  sea.  Snap ! 
Sweet  and  succulent  fish  1  Snap !  Creatures  small  and  bright,  I  am 
greedy  for  your  flesh  and  'tis  felicity  that  in  my  gulping  you  I  also 
gulp  the  light. 

The  foam  about  me  swirls,  vibrant.  I  loll  at  ease.  Blue,  oblong  bub- 
bles dart.  Capsizing,  waist  in  air,  I  give  chase.  0  the  big  one  there! 
I  will  have  him.  No,  he's  gone.  And  on  I  undulate  across  the  seven 
seas. — A  singing  fills  my  ears.  To  a  sound  my  eyes  are  drawn.  Spume 
spatters!  A  typhoon!  I  see  it's  rain.  .  .  .  But  no,  'tis  a  jetting  whale. 
Too  warm  in  ocean's  tepid  flow  it  spouts  a  cooling  drench  while  dream- 
ing in  the  sun. 

The  shark  disquiets  me.  Red-eyed  and  long  of  head,  his  lantern  jaws 
convey  I  Imow  not  what  vile  dread.  A  while  we  fly  his  track's  tumult- 
uous, cleaving  surge.  Voracious,  brutal  force!  'Tis  ended!  I  sub- 
merge. A  glimmering  coral-bush  its  refuge  offers  me.  I  watch  through 
waving  fronds  the  Long-Head  search  the  sea  with  red  and  roving  eye. 
Does  he  spy  me  ?  Neptune  aid !  The  beast  I  He  comes !  The  beast  I  .  .  . 
No,  it  is  but  his  shade. 

0  wood  of  flaccid  weeds  with  oily  tangles  strong,  where  the  pale  light 
of  day  escapes  in  tenuous  shreds  from  the  cradling  summit  reared  so 
high  above  our  heads,  how  I  love  the  calm,  green  sea  beneath  your 
branches  long!  With  indolent  fins  I  swim  your  muffled  waves  among 
and  ever  as  I  move  I  feel  the  faint  caress,  the  gently-brushing  touch 
where  my  white  belly  gleams,  along  my  back,  my  sides,  and  stroking 


PAUL   FORT  69 

every  part,  the  subtle  laziness  of  weedy  fingers  lean,  of  waves  soft  lan- 
gours  steep,  of  rays  in  druid  sleep,  till  tremblings  somnolent,  prolonged 
within  my  heart,  leave  me  suspended  there  enmeshed  in  lulling  dreams. 

The  things  I  've  always  loved  I  now  behold  again :  the  splendour  mari- 
time of  morning's  crimson  birth,  winds  marine  that  everywhere  bright- 
shimmering  silks  upraise,  the  sweetness  infinite  of  sunset  in  the  bays, 
and  the  dishevelled  robe  nocturnal  of  the  crags ;  I  see  in  the  spray  the 
gray  reflections  of  the  strands;  I  dream  of  lunar  seas,  gold  lands  with 
han^ests  graced,  and,  vaguely  glimpsed,  the  huge  blue  billows  of  the 
earth,  whence  sometimes,  sheaf -like,  jags  an  unexpected  flame,  uphurl- 
ing  blackened  rocks  in  the  blue  sky  laid  waste :  and  my  heart  is  emulous 
of  the  unmounted  main. 

A  flight  of  circling  gulls  my  memoiy  doth  dower.  Led  by  its  scarf  of 
moire  the  whole  day  long  I  went.  0  delicate  delight  of  vision  when  the 
shower  falls  from  its  source  di^dne,  in  silver  palpitant,  upon  the  tomd 
breast  of  the  respiring  sun.  Into  what  amorous  dream  has  my  rapt 
fancy  gone,  0  dolphin?  Skies  of  pearl,  clouds  shot  vnth.  carmine  gleams, 
fair,  fluttering  butterflies  about  a  perfumed  isle,  waves  whispering  in 
dreams,  wide  evening's  tranquil  smile,  green  rocks  with  pendulous  weeds 
whence  the  ebbed  ocean  drips,  a  bright,  full  moon  whose  light  filters  to 
oj^ers '  lips ;  I  feel  the  night  approach  with  fluctuant  shades  for  guard ; 
and  see  from  the  vaulting  nave  of  the  grotto  mjinad-starred  that  the 
sky-line  lifts  and  shuts  at  the  blue  zenith's  height,  stalactite-like  descend 
long  rays  of  silver  bright.  A  sudden  clamour  leaps  from  waves  with 
tumult  ta'en,  and  my  heart  is  emulous  of  the  unmounted  main. 

Come,  0  my  dream,  behold  to  what  ardour  intimate  doth  palpitate  and 
yield  Ocean's  eternal  flow.  The  current's  tepid  sheath  to  ribbands  I 
have  split.  Onward  I  fly  upborne  by  madrepores  aglow.  Thou  that 
synthesized  all  life,  obscure  and  might}-  vat,  to  which  the  universe  owes 
dolphins  and  their  dreams, — Life's  heaving  forces  burst  in  phosphores- 
cent streams  within  thy  tide  robust  Avhere,  luminous,  I  plunge.  In  deep 
abj^sms  blue  seethe  primal  growths  of  sponge.  Hill  vertebrae  upthmst 
crests  perpendicular.  What  things  I  see!  0  gulfs!  0  my  distracted 
flight!  All  the  soft  azure  swarm  of  medusas  there  respires.  There, 
wreathing  emerald  whorls,  the  giant  mosses  thrive.  Was  that  heat- 
lightning's  flare,  round  the  horizon  s^virled?  This  waste  of  golden  sand 
is  nothing  but  a  light  .  .  .  Here  is  death,  and  just  beyond  the  whole  of 
life  astir.     Black  quiverings  of  kelp  above  a  crumbled  world  where  a 


70       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OP 

precipice's  brow  lets  roam  its  forest  red.    How  much  the  ocean's  bed  is 
ruined  and  alive! 

Let  us  plumb  these  depths  profound,  0  my  dream,  for  I  would  glut 
my  eyes  with  caverns  rent  by  travailling  earth.  Full  fain  the  craters 
I  would  see,  pressed  close  above  their  vent,  distend  their  igneous  throat 
to  slake  the  whirhvind's  rut  and  shake  the  mountain-tops'  gigantic 
porous  chain.  I  know  them  well.  But  the  sea  is  jealous  of  their  charms. 
More  heavy  let  us  be.  More  deep  my  %dsion  bends,  searching.  From 
secret  caves  a  gentle  light  ascends.  I  see  (the  lesser  death  through  all 
my  being  goes),  I  have  seen  again  these  peaks  upheaved  by  cosmic 
throes.  Ocean  in  them  fulfills  her  savage  destiny.  It  overruns  the  earth, 
it  lies  with  lava-floes.  With  all  its  yital  force  their  sombre  breasts  it 
sows,  and  myriad  flaming  mouths  exude  a  froth  of  shell.  With  the  hot 
fires  of  3^our  heart,  volcanoes,  burn  the  sea!  The  sparks  are  vitalized! 
How  SAvift  the  fishes  dart!  The  bright  sparks  die.  In  this  is  all  your 
task  comprised?  You  draw  the  dead  who  come,  a  never-ending  train,  in 
your  eternal  flux  life's  heart  to  find  again.  O  ashes,  ashes,  ashes. 
Sparks  ...  in  a  little  space  coral  and  kelp  have  hid  that  barren,  craggy 
face,  green  jungles,  swarming  crabs  and  these  devil-fishes  fair,  invading 
Ocean's  lair  with  rope-like  amorous  arms;  the  hippocampi  black  your 
molten  streams  elude ;  blue  holuthurias  shine :  thine  is  the  labour  hard  ; 
the  humble  sludge  is  starred  and  patterned  like  the  skies.  Though  one 
day  all  this  dies,  the  ashes  you  will  guard.  Imbibing  death,  the  sea  with 
phosphorescence  gleams.  You  breathe  it  and  your  fires  already  ai'e  re- 
newed— and  mounting  sea-birds  soar  to  the  creative  sun. 

"If  it  is  good  to  dream,  then  what  should  living  heV  Within  my 
dorsal  fin  this  thought  has  taken  shape.  Seized  with  gay  vertigo  it  has 
awakened  me.  My  tail  undulates.  Ho!  ho!  A  trembling  thrills  my 
nape.  Where  am  I  and  with  what  do  I  reel  ?  0  lovely  eve !  .  .  .  Could 
I  in  the  sea  so  long  with  dreams  my  senses  snare,  when  all  its  surface 
gray  tumultuously  doth  heave?  Pair  is  the  storm,  the  sky.  The  flying 
foam  is  fair.  Behold  the  mighty  surge  that  brings  me  happiness.  'Tis 
no  tempest,  truth  to  tell,  but  what  is  that  to  me !  I  leap  in  air,  upborne 
by  the  roaring  billows'  ire.  Rain  lacks,  but  I've  the  spray.  My  heart 
is  mad  with  glee.  In  the  curve  of  vaulting  waves  towards  heaven's  high 
dome  I  press,  to  slither  back,  enmeshed  in  flakes  of  humid  fire.  I  would 
bite  the  lightning-flash  should  it  denounce  me  here  to  the  injurious 
thunder-bolt.  Ah,  let  me  journey  free!  How  red  I  must  appear  be- 
neath this  copper  sun !    What  madness  prompted  me  to  make  dim  dreams 


PAUL   FORT  71 

my  care?  One  must  live.  I  am  made  for  heaven,  sea,  and  the  space 
between.  I  chase  a  gleaming  wave  made  amorously  bare.  She  blinds 
me  all  at  once.  'Tis  to  make  my  bliss  more  keen.  This  other  has  a 
breast  defaced  with  hydras  pale.  Come  on  her  back  to  see  what  wills 
the  jealous  one.  For  I  adore  them  all.  Towards  none  my  love  shall 
fail.  Gay,  passionate,  perverse  alike  I  must  possess,  and  my  white 
breast  has  found  myriads  of  mistresses.  How  many  do  I  make  cry  when 
tempests  roar  above?  As  well  enumerate  the  planets'  grains  of  sand, 
for  dolphin  never  yet  wearied  of  making  love.  Some  are  like  stately 
trees  that  grow  upon  the  land,  some  like  smooth  columns  are,  and  some 
like  sirens  fair,  but  which  my  favorite  is  shall  never  be  betrayed.  I 
needs  must  go  to  scan  the  mighty  sun,  austere,  who  holds  high  court 
a  while  ere  gliding  in  the  crowds  of  the  majestic  stir  and  turning  of 
the  clouds.  For  that  proud  pilgrimage  a  road  of  gold  is  made.  I  shall 
leap,  or  rather  fly,  from  crest  to  crest,  press  on,  heading  the  dolphin 
troop  through  ambient  seas  of  air,  o'er  all  the  waves  of  light  till  I  at- 
tain the  sun  I 


Extracts  from  LUCIENNE 

XXIV. 

*'Thi8  morn  in  the  lily  a  bee  doth  sing :  upon  your  finger  chants  a  ring. 
From  the  forget-me-nots  bird-song  flashes:  your  brown  eye  laughs  at 
me  'neath  its  lashes. 

'Tis  thus  I  sing  to  you  words  without  significance,  sweet  phrases  that 
intoxicate  preparing,  as  I  lull  you  in  my  arms — my  charms  being  words 
80  pure  you  would  say  that  they  were  silence,  which  reassure  you,  non- 
chalant one,  which  reassure  you  of  your  lover's  daring. 

"The  moon's  in  the  pool,  in  the  rushes  cool  .  .  .  like  a  bee  in  heaven 
the  bright  sun  is  .  .  .  the  cuckoo's  refrains  ring  once  and  again. — To 
your  white  bosom  sings  my  kiss. 

XXXVIII. 

Since  our  loves  can  ne'er  agi'ee,  let's  be  gay,  let's  be  gay  I — since  our 
loves  can  ne'er  agree,  laugh  and  while  the  hours  away. 


72       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

If  you  loved,  my  love  would  make  reply.    Let's  be  gay,  "'ct's  be  gay! — 
I  would  love,  with  loathing  you  repay,  I  fain  would  laugh  until  I  die. 

"What  does  love  bring  but  pain  and  fret  ?    Let 's  be  gay,  let 's  be  gay. — 
Is  love  then  worth  the  least  regret?    Laagh  and  while  the  hours  away. 


LI. 

From  a  little  violet  wine  at  not  too  dear  a  fee,  my  love,  I  have  de- 
duced a  whole  philosophy. 

This  wine,  this  sweet  wine,  unto  sadness  leads,  and  sadness  in  its  turn 
to  melancholy. 

and  from  there,  my  love,  to  blank  forgetfulness. 

I  forget  the  evenings  'neath  the  arbor's  shade  when  the  sweet  wine 
filled  my  heart  with  glee  since  you  were  there  and  just  for  me. 

All  the  false,  fair  skies  with  hope's  bright  hue  o'erlaid,  ah!  swiftly 
did  they  fade  in  our  lifted  glasses'  shine,  drunk  with  the  wine  they 
have  fled! 

Far  you  have  sped  but  forgetfulness  is  mine. 

The  little  violet  wine  to  sadness  leads  and  the  sadness  in  its  turn  t© 
melancholy. 

LV. 

Alone  in  my  blood  I  hold  the  whole  of  poesy.  Death  lingers  far  aloof 
till  all  things  I  have  sung — even  to  you,  0  blue  mirage  the  sands  among : 
some  day  I  wish  to  sing  your  infidelity. 

Alone  in  my  blood  I  hold  the  whole  of  poesy,  some  day  I  shall  be  dead, 
having  sung  each  least  detail — excepting  you,  perhaps,  mistress  admir- 
able !    Ah  me,  how  shall  I  sing,  undone,  of  one  with  faith  so  frail  1 


PAUL  FORT  73 

COXCOMB 

or 

THE  ]\IAN  WHO  FELL  NAKED  FROM  PARADISE. 

Followed  by 

THE  BOOK  OF  VISIONS  and  HENRY  III. 

1906. 


COXCOMB 

or 

THE  MAN  WHO  FELL  NAKED  FROM  PARADISE. 

(Fragment:  first  pages.) 

I. 

Silence,  the  hay  is  sweet,  and  'tis  the  hour  of  grain. 

0  soft,  green  heaven!  Happy  souls  of  those  who  scythe  and  sickle 
ply!  The  metal  shines.  The  amis  are  bare.  O'er  the  hill  a  horn  of 
the  moon  doth  bend.  Let  fair  arms  nonchalantly  extend!  As  yet  no 
shrilling  cricket 's  cry  troubles  the  evening  atmosphere.  The  day  strews 
clouds,  a  roseate  rain :  one  would  say  it  shed  its  leaves  to  die,  in  the  si- 
lence, at  the  horizon  clear. 

Yes.  I  feel  that  the  world  is  but  a  dream.  The  sun  sets.  The  pale 
moon  doth  beam.  Yes.  ...  I  pass,  they  see  my  form  appear,  remote  on 
the  roadway's  dusty  reaches — in  silhouette  between  the  beeches — and 
they  call  to  me  and  I  make  reply:  ''Come,  lads,  have  done  with  drudg- 
eries !  Enough  you  have  laboured  for  today.  Lay  down  the  scythes,  put 
the  sickles  by.  Group  youi*selves  about  me.  I  am  here.  Hark  to  the 
seller  of  images. 


74       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OP 

From  the  crest  of  the  hill  I  have  not  seen,  approaching  like  a  bank  of 
mist,  the  cart  that  every  eve  keeps  tryst  to  bring  you  to  your  hearth- 
fire's  boon,  nor,  circling  'gainst  the  heaven's  dull  green,  the  whip  of 
Toby.  No.  I've  seen  only  the  rising  of  the  moon,  and  I  have  come  to 
tell  you  this. 

This  slope  is  more  steep  with  every  sun.  Each  day  a  day  older  are 
my  shanks.  Help  me  then — thanks — in  my  descent.  Almost  I  upset  you, 
little  one  ? — Great  eyes  of  blue  ...  Do  they  love  to  dream  ?  0  fair,  at- 
tentive chin !  Come  here,  that  I  may  kiss  you,  sweet,  and  then  hark  to 
a  true  word  in  your  ear.  "The  sun  sets.  The  pale  moon  doth  beam. 
My  child,  this  world  is  but  a  dream. ' ' 

Heigh,  don 't  forget  what  I  told  you  all !  I  've  come  to  move  your  hearts 
to  laughter.  Last  night  I  fathomed  the  hereafter,  reading  in  palms  what 
must  befall.    Bah !    For  this  evening  I  devise  a  legend  strange  and  rare. 

And  first — do  you  wish  to  please  me  well  ? — Go,  little  ones,  and  dance 
a  round  so  ■v\ild  you  will  tumble  to  the  ground,  dizzied.  Thereafter,  I  will 
tell  the  story  of  Coxcomb,  he  who  fell  naked  from  Paradise. 

Without  so  much  as  a  blouse,  poor  wight,  bare  and  pink,  like  a  frog 
without  its  hide,  arrived  on  earth  in  such  a  plight,  judge  if  he  was  not 
mortified. 

Turn,  turn,  sweet  lads  and  maidens  shy,  till  you  make  the  round  in- 
deed a  round.  See  how  they  wreathe  a  goodly  crown  upon  the  front  of 
Cybele! 

— Coxcomb,  fallen  sheer  from  the  tempest's  brow,  thought  himself 
god,  seven  times  a  man.  Yet  he  was  costumed  God  knows  how  .  .  .  But 
the  whole  matter  you  shall  scan. 

Come,  you  have  whirled  enough,  I  wis,  for  many  now  are  lying  prone. 
Wool-gathering  all  the  wits  have  gone.    Hark  to  the  seller  of  images. 

— Since  then  he  makes  the  tour  of  the  world.  Coxcomb,  vendor  of 
Verities,  on  his  head  a  fool's  cap  proudly  twirled  (do  you  hear  it  tinkle 
in  the  breeze?  .  .  .),  in  his  hand  a  blade  that  oft  assails  the  vanguards 
of  the  summer  gales. 


PAUL   FORT  75 

Pell-mell  at  his  heels  policemen  run,  'neath  the  rain,  through  the 
wind,  and  in  the  sun,  for  'tis  his  boast  he  can  invoke  crowds  of  imagi- 
naiy  folk,  make  the  far  horizon  furnish  throngs,  and  the  depths  of  earth, 
to  hear  his  songs.  And  if  in  a  deserted  land,  Coxcomb,  with  lifted  arm 
should  stand  launching  a  h}Tnn  to  the  Infinite,  indubitably  you  would 
hear  each  bush  a  murmuring  transmit,  "You  have  the  right  of  it, 
Brigadier,"  and  instantly  on  every  hand,  through  fields,  and  roads  and 
standing  grain,  policemen  would  give  chase  again. 

Who  but  myself  should  Coxcomb  be?  At  least  'tis  fitting  thus  to 
deem.  Your  pleasure  will  be  more  extreme,  sweeter  will  prove  your 
gaiety. 

Good  folk,  attention.  I  commence.  Those  who  do  not  comprehend  the 
tale,  the  dolts  and  dullards,  I'll  dispatch  to  catch  me  flies  in  the  moon- 
light pale. 

I  hear  the  stars  their  silence  trail  like  a  veil  immense  o'er  the  gar- 
nered grain.  At  the  far  limit  of  the  plain  dies  the  sun.  The  hour  is 
opportune. 

I  shall  only  stop  to  blow  my  nose  because  of  the  evening  dew.  I  fly  on 
the  wings  of  Fantasy.    Remain  here,  seated,  you! 

Those  that  are  bored  had  best  embrace,  Jack  kissing  Jill  and  contrary- 
wise,  and  recommence  their  vows  and  sighs,  not  troubling  me  whate'er 
their  case. 

Silence,  the  hay  is  sweet,  and  'tis  the  hour  of  grain.  See  also  whether 
.  .  .  the  hour  is  opportune. 

I  fly  on  the  wings  of  Fantasy,  'neath  the  silver  of  the  moon. 

II. 

Frightened  by  Destiny,  which  to  him  this  orb  decreed,  and  dreading, 
furtively,  lest  he  by  chance  exceed  the  sum  of  human  souls  that  on  Earth 
he  should  create,  that  number  consecrate,  which,  where  the  gods  abide. 
Earth's  entity  controls,  and  filled  with  panic  fears  lest  he  Destiny's  law 
transgress,  and  wounded  in  his  pride  at  his  abasement  slow  from  him- 
self to  nothingness,  till  none  his  fame  might  know,  our  God,  one  of  the 


76       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

least  presiding  o'er  the  spheres,  Earth's  primal  deity,  feeling  a  little 
old,  with  memory  far  from  hale  whose  scope  each  day  decreased,  re- 
solved, one  summer  night,  to  count  his  universe,  and,  foreseeing  the  ap- 
proach of  the  Last  Census  Day,  his  company  to  coach,  decided  to  rehearse 
the  pageant  in  his  Vale. 

And  'twas  a  wondrous  sight,  but  none  were  there  to  see. 

Some  in  siestas  deep  by  the  Malayan  Sea  where  o'er  their  honeyed 
sleep  drowses  the  tulip-tree,  others  no  doubt  a  prey  to  opium  immense 
where  all  of  China  lay  immersed  in  poppied  trance,  and  the  shepherds, 
too,  who  sat  a  dormant,  pastoral  group  around  Jehosophat,  ringed  by 
their  bleating  troupe,  some  at  Beauvais  in  France,  since  night  was  well 
advanced,  each  on  his  wages  bent,  as  though  'neath  Morpheus'  wand 
from  Brest  to  Kohinoor,  from  Yedo  to  Golcond  the  living  slept  secure, 
yea  slumbered  like  the  dead,  the  thief  beneath  his  tent,  the  banker  in 
his  bed,  and  the  Cossack  stretched,  perforce,  on  the  withers  of  his  horse. 

Through  that  midnight,  splendour-filled,  all  of  the  living  slept,  letting 
their  souls,  in  crowds,  escape  from  misty  dreams  to  blend  themselves, 
obscure,  with  the  souls  Death 's  urn  had  spilled  in  multi-coloured  streams, 
and  those  fallen  from  the  clouds  like  a  river  of  stars  that  swept  down  the 
Vale's  declivity  And  'twas  a  wondrous  sight  but  none  were  there  to 
see. 

On  high  archangels  soared  to  sound  the  trumpet  there,  like  lightning's 
vivid  glare  launching  their  thunders  gold,  and  angels,  garland-wise, 
sustained  the  trumpets  blare,  and  the  universe  gleamed  fair  in  the 
pavilions  gold. 

And  the  sweet  child-angels  made  their  small  hands  shine  again  with 
the  stars  that  thither  strayed  to  re-illume  their  flame,  or,  from  the  blw- 
paved  lodge  allotted  to  their  sway,  trotted  to  play  hop-scotch  across  the 
Milky  Way. 

Above  a  forest,  God  was  glorious  at  his  ease.  Bent  towards  the  tawny 
fires  that  graced  his  fingers  Vjland,  he  shone  before  the  souls  without 
an,  "if  you  please,"  all  in  the  eternal  charm  exhaled  from  each  white 
hand. 


PAUL   FORT  77 

Saint  Michael,  at  his  side,  whirling  his  keen-edged  sword,  crated  the 
Divine  ceremoniously.  The  slopes  of  Olive's  mount  prolonged  their 
dreaming,  and  the  Popes,  'neath  the  roses,  Latin  sang  to  hymn  the  risen 
Lord. 


At  the  summit  Lucifer  of  his  sombre  shadow  made  a  screen  and  to 
his  brows  that  velvet  strove  to  bring.  In  vain !  His  ruby  glance  con- 
sumed the  succouring  shade  till  his  eyes  blinked,  half-blind,  'neath  the 
rays'  burnishing. 

But  in  truth  the  fairest  thing  would  have  been  to  hear  the  song,  flush 
with  the  mountain  line, 

the  chorus  of  the  stai-s.  The  air,  so  vast  their  throng,  was  all  in  seed- 
pearls  fine, 

flush  with  the  mountain  line,  and  blithely  did  they  sing: 

"A  little  living  air  our  radiance  still  doth  shed  but  we  are  little,  blest 
religions  that  are  dead.  'Tis  true  that  they  declare  we  are  the  stars. 
Ah,  well,  no  prouder  for  that  thought  our  microcosms  swell.  We  are 
dead,  dead,  dead,  yet  keep  unchanged  eternally  a  little  living  air.  Hark 
rather  to  the  rare  tinkling,  our  secret  voice  on  the  robe  of  Destiny.  Have 
we  not  still  the  right  to  glory  in  our  fire,  being  Destiny's  choice,  the 
gauds  that  deck  her  stately  gown?  'Tis  we,  in  all  renown,  spangle  her 
night  attire.  What  does  it  matter  now!  Enough  of  coquetrjM  There's 
no  more  thought  of  us,  lights  innocent  and  fair.  Hark  to  our  song, 
regard  where  our  merged  radiance  shines.  Poised  in  the  evening  sky, 
evil  Ave  muse  towards  none,  and  'tis  the  shepherds  come  to  worship  at 
our  shrines. 


A  STAB. 

Yet,  my  sisters,  we  retain  some  curiosity,  still  doth  the  living  world 
our  ribbed  composure  nudge.  My  sisters,  you  are  wise,  bend  from  the 
skies  and  see!  What  doth  this  stir  portend?  What  might  this  tu- 
mult be? 


78       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

ANOTHER. 

Is  it  not  some  deity  that  they  are  going  to  judge? 

THE  STAR  OF  THE  MORNING. 

Ah,  my  sister,  you  don't  know?  According  to  report  'tis  the  Chris- 
tian's god,  my  sister, 

ALL  THE  STARS. 

The  Christian's  god!  .  .  .  Hoho!    Then  -vve  shall  have  good  sport. 

THE  STAR  OF  THE  MORNING. 

'Twas  the  Sun  that  told  me  the  circumstance.  I  combed  his  rays  with 
my  comb  of  blue. 

ALL  THE  STARS. 

Waltz  two  by  two.    Behold  our  dance. 

As  I  have  said  above  all  of  the  living  slept,  some  in  siestas  deep  by 
the  Malayan  Sea  where  o'er  their  honeyed  sleep  drowses  the  tulip-tree; 
others  no  doubt  a  prey  to  opium  immense  where  all  of  China  lay  im- 
mersed in  poppied  trance,  souls  to  oblivion  sent,  who  knows?  perchance 
they  snored,  the  thief  beneath  his  tent,  the  banker  in  his  bed,  and  the 
Cossack  stretched,  perforce,  on  the  withers  of  his  horse. 

III. 

All  of  the  living  slept? — save  Coxcomb  only.  He  to  life  that  evening 
leapt,  breathed  by  the  Deity. 


Extracts  from  the  Book  of  Visions. 

THE  SADNESS  OF  PAN. 

The  rapturous  lark  has  thrown  to  calm,  uneehoing  skies,  his  trill's 
last  passionate  spray.  The  harvests,  zephyr-stirred,  closing  above  the 
bird,  take  the  last  thought  of  day.    Brushing  the  ears  of  grain  a  redly- 


PAUL    FORT  79 

slanting  ray  remounts  to  heaven's  veiled  dome.     On  the  horizon  clear 
it  burns,  to  disappear  in  the  abyss  unknown. 

Pan,  level  mth  the  grain  has  raised  his  starry  eyes.  They  light  the 
flute  that  Pan  to  hairy  lips  applies.  They  light  the  dark,  their  eyes 
illume  the  ripened  wheat,  and  his  ten  fingers  fleet  claspinc  the  reed  that 
gleams. 

Swart  chest  that  amber  beads,  in  heaving  chain,  embrace  (can  they  be 
moons  thus  ranged  'neath  clouds  of  sable  hue?).  0  shaggy  satyr's  chest, 
those  eyes  illumine  you !  They  light — is  it  a  dream — in  the  opal  cameo 
suspended  from  the  chain,  pale,  dead  Diana's  face. 

And  I,  who  am  the  fields'  reflective  guardian,  have  ±  recognized  god 
Pan  with  earthward-drooping  horns,  who,  sighing  deep,  regards  his 
necklace?  Suddenly,  breathing  a  deeper  sigh,  he  droops  his  head,  to  lie 
flush  with  the  evening  grain. 

And,  cradled  by  its  wave,  he  modulates  the  strain  of  his  flute  with 
nimble  hands. 

Oh,  how  ecstatic  song  can  light  the  standing  wheat!  Pan  lifts  a  fin- 
ger, breathes,  and  shifts  the  key,  while  I,  sad  w^atcher  of  the  fields,  be- 
hold his  breath  divine  and  modulated  sounds  softly  create  the  moon. 

Rapidly  she  has  slipped  above  the  sea  of  w-heat,  the  sweet  moon  like 
a  bubble,  then  mounted  to  the  depths  of  the  nocturnal  skj^ 

Pan,  propped  on  elbows,  watched  from  depths  of  lunar  grain. 

Then  from  a  wood  nearby  chanted  the  nightingale  towards  that  full 
moon  so  fair ;  upon  the  mounting  trills  of  his  voice  sustained  in  air  like 
a  white  flower  that  swoons,  poised  on  a  fountain's  crest. 

Pan  brooded,  head  on  breast,  letting  the  bird  sing  on.  Sad,  heedless 
of  his  reed,  upon  the  bare  earth  laid,  with  trembling  hand  he  weighed 
his  necklace  of  dead  moons. 

Did  he  think  of  perished  gods?  Deeply  and  long  he  sighed.  Did 
he  think  of  all  the  tasks  his  flute  performed  again,  of  rivers,  of  the  breeze, 
of  forests,  of  the  dawn,  of  all  the  work  contrived  by  deities  dead  and 


80       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

gone?    Or  did  he  dream  of  Hells  extinguished  by  their  fall?    Was  he 
dreaming  of  his  soul,  or  of  his  flute  of  flame,  the  god  with  life  aglow? 

He  saw,  regarding  him,  Diana's  cameo. 

And  suddenly  Pan  hurled  to  that  still  sphere  above  the  final  cry  of 
love! 


PHILOMEL. 

To  the  heart  of  silence  sing,  shy  bird  that  none  may  see !    The  garden, 
listening,  ecstatic  bends  to  thee. 

The  crescent  moon  reposes  enchained  in  music's  spell.     No  zephyr 
stirs  the  roses  where  chanteth  Philomel. 

No  breath  in  all  the  bower,  where  thicker  perfumes  throng  from 
souls  that  lack  the  power  to  merge  with  that  sweet  song ! 

Like  an  appeal  to  gods  of  nether  shade's  desmesne,  the  panting  night- 
ingale sings  in  the  night  serene, 

not  to  the  flowers  that  lie  where  thicker  perfumes  throng  because  they 
cannot  die  to  that  requiem  of  song !  » 

Is  it  the  silence  breathes  from  its  melodious  heart?  ...  A  rose-bush 
sheds  its  leaves  new  torpors  to  impart. 

Silence,  with  lightnings  dressed,  like  Tempest,   dusky-browed,  then 
gently  lulled  to  rest,  a  floating  summer  cloud, 

by  that  modulated  hymn  with  pure  and  strident  swell  that  to  the 
moon  exhales  the  soul  of  Philomel ! 

Is  it  a  bird  alone  breathes  that  immortal  song? — Ah,  the  enchanting 
tone  forever  should  prolong. 

Or  is  it  out  of  Hell  that  voice  sings  deathlessly.    There  is  no  wind  at 
all  to  let  the  blossoms  die. 


PAUL   FORT  81 

Night's  shade  no  breeze  discloses.  Strange  metamorphoses!  The 
moonlight  gives  its  aid  to  the  ruin  of  the  roses. 

Already  every  flower  on  its  stem  doth  fail,  and  lo,  like  a  white  squall 
they  drift,  roses  in  vertigo, 

across  the  rapid  space  of  dormant  grasses  dim  in  terror  of  your 
hymn,  0  secret  nightingale! 

In  shiverings  of  di'ead,  corollas  leave  their  place.  A  mask  hath  over- 
spread the  scared  moon's  shining  face. 

O'er  turf  athrill  with  fears,  pale  petals  shuddering,  you  oscillate  to- 
wards earth  and  towards  this  thing  one  hears. 

Hark !  .  .  .  From  the  shadows  deep  what  sound  profound  doth  start  ? 
Is  it  the  world 's  great  heart  that  'neath  the  garden  beats  ? 

Hark!  .  .  .  Like  the  pulse  of  Fate,  a  single  stroke  .  .  .  two  .  .  . 
three.    Muffled,  precipitate,  they  mount  sonorously. 

Prisoned  in  depths  of  earth  a  heart  this  way  doth  pass.  Throbs  of  a 
mighty  heart  traverse  the  shaven  grass. 

Where  fluttering  petals  drift,  earth  heaves.  What  form  divine  a  regal 
brow  doth  lift,  blued  in  the  soft  moonshine  ? 

The  immortal  goddess,  she  whose  youth  no  years  can  quell,  the  puis- 
sant Cybele,  listens  to  Philomel. 

THE  RETURN. 

Ivy  has  covered  all  the  wall.  How  many  hours,  how  many  tears,  sincq 
last  we  loved?    How  many  years? 

No  roses  now.  Ivy  has  crushed  the  vine.  Soul,  whither  didst  thou 
go?  Climbing  across  the  nests  of  nightingales,  ivy  has  stifled  the  whole 
chateau. 

Wind,  the  deep  wells  are  choked  with  the  roses  of  yesterday.  Is  that 
your  hiding-place,  0  my  dead  wife? 


82       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OP 

No  one  replies?  Who  would  reply?  ...  Is  it  not  best  to  listen  to  the 
wind  that  sighs  through  the  grasses  "My  sweet  love?" 

Flush  with  the  roof  the  ancient,  crimson  sun  is  cut  through  the  midst 
80  mournfully! 

Shall  I  bid  the  gardener  come?  The  gardener?  No.  It  would  be 
better  to  summon  Death  to  reap  the  long  grass, 

so  many  memories  and  so  much  love,  and  the  setting  sun  at  the  level 
of  the  earth ! 

THE  LITTLE  LIGHTS. 

Starred  nights,  white  days  and  days  of  blue,  each  chasing  each  with 
gladsome  mirth  above  the  changing  shapes  of  Earth,  soon  I'll  no  longer 
gaze  on  you; 

suns  peeping  through  the  leaves,  to  throw  into  the  glade  the  tawny 
flames  of  lamps,  of  hearths,  and  dancing  chains  of  lights  that  set  the 
streets  aglow, 

the  flares  from  heaving  barques  that  glance,  the  phosphor  of  an  April 
sea,  the  planets  beaming  over  France,  faint  lights  I  loved  so  eagerly, 

and  you,  the  sweet,  dear,  trembling  eyes,  green  rogues  I  did  so  much 
adore,  I  shall  behold  your  dance  no  more ;  I  shall  behold  your  dance  no 
more; 

loves  little  lights  that  cheered  the  dark,  lights  of  France,  gold  core  of 
summer's  husk — tonight  there  comes  a  greedy  spark  to  burn  the  dead 
leaf  of  the  dusk ! 

Death's  mighty  flame,  whose  golden  worth  so  vastly  all  my  soul  in- 
vites that  I  shall  close  my  eyes  on  Earth  to  the  dancing  of  the  little 
lights. 

ETERNITY. 

One  does  not  need  to  credit  death.  The  human  heart  to  rest  is  fain. 
O'er  sleeping  fields  the  evening's  breath  dreams,  and  I  hear  eternity 
chime  in  the  bending  ears  of  grain. 


PAUL   FORT  83 

**Hark.  An  angelus  dies  in  heaven's  blue  height."  Be  comforted. 
Hours  pass  away.  Hushed  is  the  belfry?  God  doth  wake.  The  nightin- 
gale salutes  the  day,  hid  in  the  turret's  rose-tree  brake,  and,  in  its  turn, 
will  mourn  the  night. 

"Hark.  Once  again  the  hour  doth  swell."  But  the  bell's  already 
fast  asleep.  Eternity  is  chiming  deep  borne  by  the  sweet,  tormented 
breath  of  zephyr  and  of  Philomel. 

One  does  not  need  to  credit  death. 


HENRI  III. 
I. 


The  chairs  and  tables  sleep.  The  tapestries  are  drawn.  At  times  the 
royal  bed  gives  forth  a  mournful  groan.  It  is  the  wood.  The  soul  of 
the  old  oak  doth  complain.  Listen  .  .  .  Indeed,  it  groans  scarcely  at 
all. — Again!  Listen  .  .  .  The  hearth  obscure  with  new  life  trembles. 
Three  blue  wisps  of  dancing  flame  are  flickering  weirdly  blue.  Waving 
adieu  to  walls  marked  with  the  fleurdelys. 

All  fades.    Obscurity  puts  the  four  walls  to  flight. 

A  bright  flare  from  the  hearth  recalls  them  to  the  eye.  The  bed,  all 
shivering,  utters  a  human  sigh;  and  Philip  of  Valois  emerges  from  a 
wall.    Opens  a  chest,  leaps  in,  and  lets  the  cover  fall. 

Dissembling  Louis  XI  slips  forth  with  pnident  stealth.  On  his  sombre 
hood  there  whirls  a  white  mouse.  One  perceives,  the  arms  of  Brittany 
embroidered  on  their  sleeves,  each  gaze  devouring  each,  Charles  VIII 
and  Louis  XII.    Into  the  chest  they  leap  and  let  the  cover  fall. 

The  impish  Francis  II  to  puke  in  the  hearth  has  gone.  "With  sheets 
upraised,  the  bed  is  like  a  ghost,  indeed.  In  the  chamber  of  the  Kings 
how  reigns  to  reigns  succeed!  Regard  that  cavernous  chest.  Did  you 
not  see  it  yawn  ? 

All  fades.    Obscurity  puts  the  four  walls  to  flight. 


84       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

From  the  hearth  a  sudden  spurt  resummons  them,  and  now  Francis  I 
with  limping  gait  Henry  II  doth  precede.  Of  Diane  de  Poitiers  they 
dream  with  drooping  brow.  Then  both  together  dive  and  close  the 
oaken  lid. 

This  time  'tis  Charles  the  Fifth  whose  sceptre  shoves  it  back,  the  "Wise 
King.  Faggots'  flare  tints  him  with  crimson  dyes.  He  leaps.  What 
checks  his  leap  ?  The  purple  he  has  donned.  Purple-enwound  he  leaps 
and  drops  his  jewelled  wand.  Swiftly  from  lock  to  lock  the  hand  of 
Justice  flies  turning  the  keys  (eric!  crac!). 

For  here  is  John  the  Good. 

Stoop-shouldered,  decked  with  chains  that  chime  sad  threnodies,  the 
tortured  smile  of  Christ  and  Christ's  blue  eyes  he  has.  The  madman 
Charles  the  Sixth  lilies  of  France  upheaves,  scourging  him  well  there- 
with from  morion  to  greaves.  Snapped  petals  fall.  Charles  Sixth,  the 
drunkard,  gathers  them,  and  to  his  pious  lips  has  pressed  the  ravaged 
stem.  But  ominously  he  reels.  He  has  drunk  too  much,  'tis  plain. 
'Neath  three  sepulchral  falls  the  chest  resounds  again. 

The  line  of  Valois  kings  in  strange  commotion  move.  The  great  bed 
shakes.  The  eleven  Valois  kings  summon  another.  There,  and  in  the 
mirrors,  see,  the  oaken  coffer  gapes.  In  metamorphoses  does  Death  his 
talents  prove?  At  each  yawning,  horns  of  satyi's  raise  the  lid,  then 
instantly  are  hid. 

A  silence  dead  ensues. 

Till  out  of  murky  shades  there  mounts  a  pallid  face  as  the  full  moon 
doth  rise.  And  the  bed  sees  approach  Charles  IX  with  sombre  eyes. 
Houp!  The  chest  gulps  him  down.  All  disappears.  One  hears  the 
nibbling  of  a  mouse  through  infinite  depths  of  space. 

II. 

The  chairs  and  tables  sleep.  The  tapestries  are  drawn.  At  times  the 
royal  bed  gives  foi-th  a  mournful  gi'oan.  It  is  the  wood.  The  soul  of 
the  old  oak  doth  complain.  The  yawning  hearth  obscure  with  new  life 
trembles.    Three  blue  wisps  of  dancing  flame  their  flickering  light  pro- 


PAUL   FORT  85 

long  to  reap  the  crop  of  walls  marked  with  the  fleurdelys.  The  ceiling, 
in  that  glow,  attains  new  height,  the  bed  sinks  in  the  shadows  dread 
beneath  its  canopy. 

In  the  fluctuant  gloom  the  room  to  phantoms  is  a  prey. 

A  last  revealing  ray  strikes  on  the  chest  the  round  that,  from  it«  gulfs 
profound,  'neath  the  half -closed  lid  escapes. 

On  the  flanks  of  the  chest  a  ray  illumes  the  round  of  shapes  that  in 
a  tumult  turn  upon  its  ancient  wood. 

The  mirrors  isolate  and  make  jut  forth  the  round  of  a  dozen  satyrs 
huge  who,  with  lascivious  bound,  with  capering  limbs  surround  a  goat 
half-dead  with  fright.  And,  mirrored  thirty  times  in  cry^stal  facets 
bright,  a  Hercules  of  bronze  whirls  his  gnarled  cudgel's  mass. 

The  smile  of  him  of  Beam,  one-half  grimace,  he  has.  He  himself  1 
The  very  image ! 

The  gloom  is  warm.    A  cry  doth  brood  .  .  . 

In  silence,  at  the  gallop,  by  the  storm  of  Ages  and  Ages  and  Ages 
driven  amain,  in  silence,  at  the  gallop  of  his  steed  of  iron,  lo,  the  em- 
peror Charlemagne  hurtles  across  the  room.  Henri  of  Guise  on  his 
great  black  horse  to  that  vision  doth  succeed.  Having  missed  the  way, 
a  mirror  ends  his  chase.  Catherine  de  Medici's  great  and  lovely  face 
swims  through  the  darkness — horrible  to  see ! 

'Tis  then  that  Henri  III  draws  from  his  lethargy  a  cry  such  as  at 
night  from  depths  of  plains  doth  start,  the  cry  of  solitudes  that  shrills 
despairingly  to  numb  the  drowsing  blood  in  the  lone  traveller's  heart, 
and,  on  the  instant,  caught  in  the  swaying  curtain  vdde,  at  a  window 
toward  the  west,  illumed  with  sunset's  glow,  a  halberd's  glistening  head 
the  velvet  sweeps  aside.  Without,  the  day  falls,  red,  with  drifting 
flakes  of  snow. 

III. 

With  raiment  all  of  black  the  king  has  leaped  fifom  bed,  and  in  the 
mirrors'  depths  his  face  interrogates,  recoils  from  that  pale  mask,  and, 


86       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OP 

trembling,  coifs  his  head.  The  black  hat,  sombre-plumed,  his  paleness 
isolates.  "Will  you  come  to  rouse  from  sleep  a  blood  that  stupefies,  0 
thou  liqueur?"  he  cries.  The  cup  falls  at  his  feet.  Softly  opening  the 
door  he  harks  to  the  antechamber,  lighted  with  burnished  swords,  with 
clinking  steel  brimmed  o'er. 

The  gloves.    The  ebony  cane.    And  forth  he  fares  once  more. 

"The  King,  gentlemen!  The  King!" — The  halberds  ring.  Voices, 
whispering,  scraping  of  chairs  pushed  to  and  fro.  The  sputtering  twi- 
light glow  underlines  the  gilded  beams.  Confused  is  the  antechamber, 
with  vassal  shadows  filled,  bent  towards  a  passageway  where  a  white 
point  draws  near. 

Behind,  the  royal  bed  crouched  'neath  its  canopy,  at  the  end  of  a 
passageway,  where  a  w'hite  point  draws  near. 

"The  King!" — Second  echo. — The  halberds  ring. 

What  oval  whiteness  now  at  the  height  of  a  human  face  is  shaking 
two  long  pearls  like  the  full  moon's  glistening  tears.  Pale  visage  and 
long  pearls,  Henri  the  Third  appears.  And  the  vassal  shadows,  all  the 
vassal  shadows  bow. 

Has  a  flight  of  withered  leaves  been  tossed  here  by  the  blast?     .  . 

-ft 
" — You,  who  risk  an  eye  regard:  does  the  dusk  still  underline  the 

gilded  roof -tree  high? 

"_Yes,  but  the  King? 

<* — The  King,  my  son?  .  .  .  He  has  passed  by. 

" — Quelus,  my  good  friend,  this  smacks  of  prodigj''. 

" — Maugiron,  Saint-Megrin,  hear  a  strange  history.  Tonight  the 
Shade  of  the  King  whirls  through  the  palace,  masked  with  the  light  of 
the  moon,  two  tear-drops  in  its  ears. 

" Does  it  go,  among  her  clouds,  Catherine  to  find  once  more?    Look 

where  it  mounts  the  stair ! 

'«_'Tis  at  the  second  floor!" 

The  halberds  ring.  Voices,  whispering,  scraping  of  chairs  pushed  to 
and  fro.    Without  the  day  falls,  red,  with  drifting  flakes  of  snow. 


PAUL   FORT  87 

IV. 

While  the  hurrying  King  runs  up  the  empty  stair,  swinging  his  lan- 
tern's flare,  who  enters  but  Chicot?  They  surround  the  Fool  who  laughs 
and  slips  away  and  reappears  below.  His  lantern's  orange  ray  like  a 
censer  lifts  and  sways  at  the  bottom  of  the  stair. 

"Continue,  Gentlemen,  I  seek  a  King,"  he  says. 

The  anteroom  is  dark  with  great  pale  corners  there  where  already 
torches  glow,  kindled  by  many  hands.  One  of  them  throws  a  flame  of 
carmine  and  of  snow.  The  swift  hands  separate. — One  sees  the  hall 
entire. — Light  at  the  ends  of  arms,  swords  flash  in  streaks  of  fire  that, 
two  by  two,  unite,  peopling  with  sparks  the  air.  Some  blades  there 
are  that  hum,  others  that  click  and  clash.  'Neath  shades  of  lunging 
forms  the  wall  protrudes  and  sags.  The  quick  feet  of  Mignons  rustle 
along  the  flags. 

— "Chicot,"  Quelus  cries,  "the  Ghost  of  the  King  doth  roam.  "What 
are  you  doing  there,  Chicot,  do  you  wish  to  roam?  Armed  with  your 
candle,  you  will  see  the  thing  ascend." 

— "No,  I  see  it  coming  down." 

—Who  then? 

— Henri  of  Guise. 

— The  deuce!    He  is  in  Spain,     (To  you.  Monsieur,  a  hit!) 

— Excuse  me,  my  dear  Sir,  he  descends  the  stairway  now. 

— Take  care  of  your  words,  Chicot!  ...  It's  quite  true,  gentlemen, 
I  saw  him  with  these  eyes." 

On  the  flagstones  fall  the  swords. 

Meanwhile  the  hurrying  King  up  the  empty  stairway  flees  to  his 
mother  Catherine  there,  in  her  clouds,  and  does  not  feel  the  limpid  steel 
cuirass  of  Monseigneur  de  Guise  who,  at  the  landing's  jog,  draws  back 
to  let  him  pass.  Still  he's  flesh  and  blood,  this  Duke,  there's  not  a 
doubt  of  that !  His  heart  with  vigour  throbs.  Yet  not  enough  to  rouse 
a  clinking  in  the  chill  metal  that  Monseigneur,  as  he  profoundly  bows, 
conceals  beneath  his  hat. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  stair,  all  flames.  The  Duke  descends.  Step  by 
step  descends,  like  a  phantom  circumspect.     They  crowd,  they  look  at 


88       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

him.    The  Duke  has  come  from  Spain  like  a  phantom  circumspect  and 
takes  his  road  direct  from  the  chamber  of  the  Queen. 

— ^"It's  unbelievable,"  says  Maugiron. 

— "This  Guise  is  shrewd,"  says  Saint-Megrin. 

— "Pray  let  his  Lordship  pass!" 

The  limpid  steel  cuirass  draws  after  it  the  rout  of  swords.  All  Blips 
away,  and  all  is  blotted  out. 

V. 

Meanwhile  Henry  III,  half-couched  upon  the  rail,  from  the  summit 
of  the  stair  has,  this  time,  seen  everything.  From  his  throat  he  drags 
a  sob  like  the  sobbing  of  a  dove,  then  stands  erect. 

A  wall  gapes  open  for  the  King. 

VI. 
Here,  nothing  but  a  lamp  illumining  a  hand. 

All,  save  this  single  hand  and  save  the  parchment  scroll  o*er  whosei 
expanse  that  hand,  plump,  oldish,  stiff  with  starch,  conducts  the  goose's 
plume,  or  seeks  the  stand  of  ink,  here  all  is  plunged  in  gloom.  At  inter- 
vals the  hand  desists  and  disappears,  and  this  is  what  the  flame,  that 
round  the  characters  like  a  martyr  writhes  and  twists,  might  then  de- 
cipher there: 

"To  Madame  my  daughter,  the  Catholic  Queen. 

"My  beloved  daughter,  my  dear,  my  docile  Isabelle,  I  have  news  of 
you  from  Spain,  brought  by  Monsieur  de  Guise.  It  would  be  beautiful 
indeed  to  see  all  these  wicked  heretics  flame  up  in  a  single  torch  (in 
France  as  you  do  there).  Alas,  my  darling,  here  there's  nothing  can 
be  done.  There  is  only  perversion  and  pain  with  us  for  your  good 
mother.  You  know  the  pangs  that  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to  send  me, 
the  greatest  it  ever  has  sent  to  anyone.  Burn  the  heretics!  Ah,  yes! 
Charming  bouquet  of  flames!  A  splendid  bonfire,  and  a  sacrifice  ac- 
ceptable in  the  sight  of  God.  But  what  of  that,  little  daughter,  naught 
can  be  done  in  France.  Here  all's  shadow,  even  to  the  Shadow  on  the 
throne.  .  .  . 


PAUL  FORT  89 

In  the  shadow  of  a  face  there  hangs  a  lip,  all  pale.  'Neath  a  bonnet 
of  black  tulle  a  forehead  bendeth  low,  with  moving  wrinkles  scored  like 
a  belfry  bird-befilled,  and  the  more  the  forehead  bends  the  higher  doth 
it  show.  Catherine's  lashes  wet  are  shot  with  silver  glows.  One  sees  in 
silhouette  the  stern  and  delicate  line  of  the  long  Italian  nose,  which  the 
nostrils'  fold  doth  pull  as  a  bowstring  curves  a  bow. 

It  is  the  moment  when  Catherine,  her  lips  apout,  with  a  pacific  peii 
the  impolitic  phrase  strikes  out. 

But  another  visage  now  has  risen  in  the  room.  Behind  her  Catherine 
feels  that  a  pallor  slowly  moves.  She  has  ceased  to  ^vrite,  of  naught  but 
her  beating  heart  aware.  Two  small  hands  in  gloves  upon  her  shoul- 
ders fall,  like  a  pair  of  bats  despatched  by  a  single  cudgel  blow.  And 
one  little  hand,  circling  towards  her  heart,  stiffly  clenches  there.  .  .  , 

With  the  end  of  her  goose's  quill  Catherine  pensively,  softly,  caresses 
it.    And  both  dream  and  the  hour  is  full  of  indolence. 

Trembling,  the  hand  becomes  less  tense.  .  .  .  By  one  finger!  See, 
the  parchment  pointed  at  by  but  one  finger  now!  "Here  all's  shadow 
even  to  the  Shadow  on  the  throne." 

Two  hands  have  grasped  the  neck  of  Catherine,  and  the  Queen,  rais- 
ing her  terrible  brow,  shrieks,  "My  King!"  A  sudden  squeak  of  the 
parquetry  betrays  a  hasty  flight,  and  soon  Henry  the  Third  descends 
the  blankness  of  the  stair. 

VII. 

He  threads  the  anteroom,  deserted  and  obscure,  throws  himself  against 
a  wall,  both  arms  extended  vnde,  and  seeks  the  passageway  along  the 
empty  wall. 

Vacancy,  naught  beside. 

The  King  reels,  runs  forward,  reels;  he  runs  to  his  open  door  and 
within  would  make  his  way  but,  \vith  hand  on  throat,  he  halts,  all  livid 
with  dismay,  before  a  halberd  tall  that  sleepily  doth  sway. 


90       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Henry  catches  at  the  leg  of  the  guard  and  wakens  him  for — 0  Stupor  !■ 
— ^there  behind  the  guard  that  he  awakes,  there  in  his  bed  reclined, 
someone  or  something  takes  the  image  of  himself  (is  perhaps  himself, 
indeed),  dim  black  and  white,  a  man,  a  King  or  some  such  thing.  A 
King  perhaps?  Charles  Ninth?  Francis?  A  ghost,  outspread  upon  the 
royal  couch,  who  sleeps  as  sleep  the  dead. 

"Guard!  Ho  there,  guard!  Who  lies  on  the  couch  of  the  King  of 
France?  "Whose  is  that  pallid  brow?  Those  rags  belong  to  me!  Did  I 
go  out  just  now?  Is  it  myself  I  see?  What  is  that  thing? — "Alas!" 
says  the  man,  his  eyes  astare,  alas,  my  worthy  lord,  but  I  ...  I  do  not 
know." 

"Silence,"  says  a  voice.  A  voice  says,  "  Silence.  ..."  And  the  King, 
close  huddled,  gapes  and  shakes  like  a  frog  in  bitter  cold.  The  bold 
halberdier  escapes  letting  his  halberd  fall. 

"Sweet  Sire,  'tis  naught.    Chicot  reposes,  that  is  all." 

And  Chicot  decamps  with  speed  dragging  a  pair  of  sheets. 

VIII. 

Midnight!  .  .  . 

Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois  sonorous  midnight  beats. 

ILE-DE-FRANCE. 

1908. 


Extracts  from   Coucy-le-CJiateau, 

THE  ARRIVAL  AT  COUCY-LE-CHATEAU. 

I  said,  "I  shall  behold  white  cloudlets,  round  and  fair,  in  traversing 
the  town,  bare  to  the  heaven's  blue  shine,  each  from  its  neighbor  born, 
like  bubbles  of  the  air,  above  a  roof  whose  ridge  the  turtle-doves  align." 


PAUL   FORT  91 

"To  the  right  a  belfry-top  the  hue  of  pigeon's  down  through  the  calm 
atmosphere  will  softly  coo  the  hours;  to  the  left  the  donjon-keep  with 
fingers  of  Spring  flowers  will  place  upon  its  head  a  battlemented  crown," 

I  arrive.  'Tis  as  I  dreamed.  Clouds,  bclfr>',  donjon-keep.  'Tia 
Couej'-le-Chateau.  I  have  divined  it  well.  And  the  roof  whose  ridge 
aligns  the  turtle-doves,  asleep,  by  a  kind  freak  of  Fate  surmounteth  my 
hotel. 

The  ''Apple  of  Gold"  I  see,  limned  on  the  sign-board  staunch,  with 
tightly-twisted  stem  (a  masterpiece,  'tis  clear)  above  the  portico  be- 
neath whose  shade  the  paunch,  white-aproned,  of  mine  host  recoils  as 
I  draw  near. 

Sleeves,  apron,  trousers,  cap,  whiter  than  Easter  flowers,  red  hands, 
pink  face  of  frank  Roger  Bontemps,  and  lo,  thrust  in  his  belt  obese,  the 
knife  that  carves  the  towers,  on  every^  Sunday  noon,  of  Coucy-le-Gateau, 

these  are  the  traits  I  see,  peace  to  my  heart  to  bring,  of  ]\Ionsieur- 
Champion-at-your-service. — My  portmanteaus  have  fled  instanter  from 
my  hands,  soon  disinherited.  My  umbrella  disappears.  "Will  he  take 
everything  ? 

I  recoil,  too,  in  my  turn.  Laughing  with  hearty  laughter  (mine)  I 
remark,  "Madame,  in  the  carriage  follows  after.  She  does  not  care  to 
climb  these  steep  ascents,  Madame. ' '  And  we  laugh,  we  laugh,  we  laugh, 
I  and  Monsieur  Champion. 

Enough.  I  turn  my  back,  in  high  content  once  more,  and,  traveller 
truly  French,  I  stroll  the  city  o'er  to  show  myself  to  the  yews,  to  the 
barber's  flasks,  to  the  shield  of  the  notary,  bright  with  gold,  toi  the  liliea 
of  the  field, 

pansies  and  gilly-flowers,  beloved  by  shutters  blue,  to  the  cobblestones 
caressed  by  a  young  pimpernel,  to  the  fountain  of  the  town,  to  its  hol- 
low-bellied shell,  to  the  cooing  belfry-top,  in  fact,  to  all  the  view. 

Children,  five,  six,  seven,  eight  throng  at  my  heels,  big-eyed  at  the 
salient  nose  whose  glows  the  velvet  cape  illume  of  this  stranger  in  full 
day  descended  from  the  moon,  "with  a  fried  whiting's  eyes,"  a  shrill- 
voiced  urchin  cries. 


92       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OP 

I  buy  them  a  red  egg  at  the  grocery.  Luscious  food !  Behold  me  popu- 
lar! Ere  long  a  dusty  cloud  encompassing  me  round  makes  me  ap- 
pear a  god  who  from  Olympus  smiles  at  the  acclaiming  crowd. 

With  fortunes  quickly  gained,  0  the  sad  aftermath !  What  revolution 
hath  exploded  'gainst  my  legs?  They  wish  red  eggs,  red  eggs,  in  ever- 
fresh  supplies. — I  buy  and  throw. — An  egg  of  truly  monstrous  size 

demolishes,  morhleu!  the  hat  for  grand  occasions  of  Suzon  as  she 
drives  the  guide-book  sights  to  view.  A  leap.  I  gain  her  side.  We 
vanish  in  a  hue  and  cry,  a  mist  of  gold,  a  thunder  of  ovations. 

With  the  bravo  of  the  stones  all  Coucy  now  doth  fete  us.  Our  cour- 
ier's a  scared  fowl,  saved  from  the  horse's  hoofs.  And  over  the  Place 
Haute,  to  better  contemplate  us,  the  craning  clouds  ascend  the  ladder 
of  the  roofs. 

Suzon,  look  closely  now !  At  the  corner  of  the  square  you  will  shortly 
see  a  man,  voracious-eyed,  appear,  who  will  greet  us  from  afar  with 
stretched,  quadruple  chin,  then  will  compress  its  folds  like  an  ac- 
cordeon 

in  measure,  0  Suzon,  as  our  pair  august  the  while,  with  statures  still 
increased  dilating  pupils  fill.  Should  he  embrace  you  not,  impute  no 
lack  of  will.    His  arms  already  form  the  basket  of  his  smile. 

In  spotless  napery,  behold  Monsieur  Champion,  weapon  at  paunch. 
The  last  of  Coucy 's  sires  ?  ...  I  see  at  his  side  Madame,  his  spouse,  who 
curtsies  smilingly.    A  pretty  face,  hum,  hum,  I  know  him  well,  Suzon. ' ' 

Half -past  eleven  doth  peal  from  the  belfry.  Joyous  chimes!  In  the 
kitchens  casseroles  are  bubbling  on  the  stoves.  Fair  Easter,  fairest  hour 
of  the  dial,  hour  when  one  dines,  while  the  city  fans  itself  with  circling 
flights  of  doves! 

Extracts   from    SENLIS. 
SENLIS.    EARLY  MORNING. 

I  go  out.  Has  all  the  town  this  morning  dropped  from  sight?  Pray 
whither  has  it  flown?     By  what  wind,  in  what  land?    I  find  it  yet  I 


PAUL   FORT  93 

scarce  dare  to  extend  my  hand.     Senlis  is  vaporous,  a  veil  of  muslin 
light. 

What?  I  to  tear  Senlis?  Take  care,  where  has  it  gone?  The  roofs 
and  walls  are  one  clear  net  of  vapour  fine.  Notre-Dame  doth  to  the  air 
her  throat  of  lace  resign,  her  dainty  neck,  her  breast  the  colour  of  the 
moon, 

where  chimes  the  hour  unreal  whose  peal  can  only  be  heard  by  angels 
'tis  so  dulled  in  the  pillow  of  the  sky  made  of  their  sno\\'^'  wings  ex- 
panded dreamily,  where  God  doth  rest  his  brow,  bending  above  Senlis. 

THE  LITTLE  SILENT  STREET. 

The  stormy  silence  stirs  and  hums.  Will  there  be  none  that  this  way 
comes  ? 

Cobblestones  count  geraniums.    Geraniums  count  the  cobblestones. 

Dream,  young  girl,  at  your  casement  high.  Shelled  green  peas  before 
you  lie. 

They  plump  the  apron  white  you  try  with  rosy  finger-tips  to  tie. 

I  pass,  in  black  from  head  to  feet.    Is  it  forked  lightning  troubles  thee, 

young  maiden,  or  the  sight  of  me?    The  peas  have  fallen  in  the  street. 

Sombre,  I  pass.    Behind  I  see  cobblestones  count  each  fallen  pea. 

The  stormy  silence  stirs  and  hums.  Will  there  be  none  that  this  way* 
comes? 


From  MARGOT,  MY  PAGE. 

MOONLIGHT. 

As  an  aspen  quivers,  'gainst  this  heart  of  mine  be  a  ray  that  shivers 
soft  as  satin  fine. 

Blue  and  alabaster  is  my  goddess  bright.     Rabbits  frolic  past  her 
through  the  summer  night. 


94       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Pale  the  perron  gleameth.    All  your  nudity  to  my  bosom  streameth, 
star  that  falls  on  me! 

How  your  neck,  Margot,  with  your  haunch  doth  glide!    Rabbits  far 
and  wide  fluff  white  tails  below. 

All  things  blend  and  move.    "Who  will  laugh  to  see  these  poor  butts 
that  prove  Dian's  archery? 


THE  HUNTER. 

From  a  great  voyage  I  come  again  and  from  the  limits  of  the  plain, 
gay  hunter  who  through  heaven  doth  chase  while  ruminating  roundelays. 

Tarantara !  on  my  shoulders,  ah !  I  bear  venison  .  .  .  Tarantara !  Not 
much  but  I  can  say  with  reason  'tis  good  considering  the  season. 

Margot,  within  her  rosy  room,  flushed  with  her  hope's  effulgent  light, 
practices  Grieg,  the  selfsame  tune  I  heard  her  playing  yesternight. 

With  shouldered  gun,  to  hear  I  pause.  The  tune  my  ear  already 
reaches.  Day,  in  the  shelter  of  the  beeches,  swift  her  obscuring  curtain 
draws. 

The  scolding  wind  of  autumn  comes,  shakes  the  green  barrier  to  and 
fro  .  .  .  the  petals  of  geraniums  through  the  wide-open  doorway  blow. 

A  ring  its  tangled  maze  doth  weave,  on  ivory  keys  to  quench  its  fires, 
on  a  theme  of  Chopin,  the  desires  of  my  fond  heart,  the  tranquil  eve. 

The  ring  upon  her  fleeting  hand  in  the  player's  shadow  veils  its  spark, 
as,  dropped  behind  the  forests  dark,  the  sun  has  vanished  from  the 
land. 

A  joyous  cry  awakes  you.  'Tis  your  heart's  deep  instinct  thus  ex- 
pressed. I'm  there,  against  the  trellises  in  a  gay  hunter's  costume 
dressed. 


PAUL   FORT  95 

New  trills,  like  mad,  tumultuous  words,  unknown  to  these  composer- 
chaps,  simulate  mockeries  of  birds  .  .  .  towards  that  great  gun  of  mine, 
perhaps. 

But  to  your  hand  that  trembles  there  in  the  last  rays  of  evening  light, 
uplifted  towards  me,  blue  and  white,  whistling,  I  give  a  slaughtered 
hare. 

"Oh,  Nimrod,  did  it  cost  a  lot? — Hmm!  ...  Be  that  as  it  may. 
Pile  high  the  kitchen  fire,  put  on  the  pot.  And  let  them  hang  me  if  I 
lie." 

The  sky  is  one  great  emerald  from  south  to  septentrion.  "Ah,  fie 
on  such  quarry!  "What,  a  hare,  Nimrod?  Another  time  'twill  be  a 
lion." 

Piqued,  "Play  me  some  Lecocq,"  I  beg.  I  break  the  shell  of  my  boiled 
egg.    From  a  great  voyage  I  come  again  and  from  the  limits  of  the  plain. 

MORTCERF. 

Followed  by 

BALLADS  AND  CANTILENAS. 

1909. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  NAMES. 

To  Francis  J.  .  .  . 

Francis,  you  realize,  from  loving  Ile-de-France.  how  a  country  or  a 
town,  adorned  with  a  fair  name,  more  than  its  neighbours  may  command 
our  confidence,  and  this  fair  name  to  rank  among  its  gifts  may  claim. 

The  forest  of  Crecy  through  which  proceeds  the  road  that  leads  me 
to  Mortcerf — its  name  pronounced  aloud  charms  like  a  fairy  flight  that 
steals  from  elfin  grots  to  wheel  about  a  knight  who,  whelmed  by  sor- 
row's load,  slumbers  beside  a  spring,  'mid  blue  forget-me-nots. 


96       SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

A  country  by  its  name  our  senses  should  delight,  or  one  can  never 
come  to  full  intelligence,  complete  accord.  You  love,  my  Francis,  Ile- 
de-France.  To  your  name  its  fair  name  a  joyous  troth  doth  plight,  and 
your  art  and  yourself  join  to  its  dowry  bright. 

How  the  names  Nemours,  Senlis,  my  beating  heart  beguile !  When  I 
murmur  them  aloud,  oh!  what  pure  joy  I  feel!  Senlis,  Nemours,  why, 
look  ...  in  faith,  I  almost  kneel.  0  Nemours,  that's  all  despair,  0 
Senlis,  that's  all  smile,  lilies,  and  turtledoves,  farewell,  dear  names  of 
song !    I  give  myself  anew,  to  Mortcerf  I  belong. 

Morteerf,  the  sounding  horn,  all  the  Fall  in  fresco  set. 

But  it  is  not  autumn  yet? — Ah,  well,  'tis  all  the  same.    Come 

staff,  I  take  the  road  for  Mortcerf  of  fair  name. 

THE  FOREST  OF  CRl&CY. 

At  a  pace  to  reawake  my  dreaming  fantasy,  I  started  then,  my  mind 
for  new  adventures  keen.  They  say  'tis  full  of  game,  the  forest  of  Crecy, 
but  only  flowers  I  saw  and  tunnels  through  the  green — sometimes  the 
noiseless  shots  of  a  tall  service-tree — 'neath  vaulting  shrubs  whose  fronds 
as  lithe  as  fairies  showed,  that  the  blue  breeze  which  sifts  the  branches 
and  the  vines  on  either  side  entwines  with  the  whiteness  of  the  road. 

Was  I  alone?  Not  I,  my  Francis.  With  me  went  my  fair  one,  pluck- 
ing flowers,  the  scarlet  pimpernel  especially,  whose  bloom  adorns  my 
dark  lapel  and  always  breaks.  One  culls  another.  Singing  gay  one 
takes  the  road  again.  Ah,  if  I  could  but  say  that  morn  how  we  had 
hearts  at  ease  and  minds  content !  From  naught,  from  everything,  Fran- 
cis, and  from  the  breeze  Which,  scourging  here  and  there,  o'er  its  green 
empire  ranged  and  from  the  kisses  sweet  we  in  the  breeze  exchanged. 

The  road  is  straight  and  white  and  long  will  last,  'twould  seem.  We 
should  have  liked  it  well  if  it  had  never  ended  (a  thousand  years  en- 
dured the  Sleeping  Beauty's  dream),  if  for  us  to  the  end  of  love,  of  life 
it  had  extended,  or  at  least  till  the  death  of  day.  0  to  see,  beneath  the 
bough,  a  hundred  tunnels  green  for  a  hundred  rays  unclose  long  tombs 
in  that  grave  hour  of  sunset's  burning  rose.  This  thing  we  did  not  see. 
How  we  regret  it  now  I 


PAUL   FORT  97 

What  did  we  see?  The  squirrel  flaunting  his  tail  with  glee.  The 
nuthatch  with  sharp  beak  drilling  the  linden-tree.  Three  baby  rabbits 
steal  from  a  wave  of  marguerites.  The  antlered  stag  up  rear  that  lordly- 
head  of  his  'neath  silver  rays  to  tear  the  veil  of  clematis.  Such  toad- 
stools as  might  serve  King  Oberon  for  seats.  And  'neath  acacia,  beech 
and  birch  with  silver  sheen,  hammocks  of  fern  to  lull  Titania  the  Queen. 
— Alas,  I  lie :  we  saw  no  trace  of  all  of  this. 

From  the  shady  forest  verge  uprose  the  scent  of  mint,  crushed  by  our 
careless  feet,  so  troubling  and  so  strong,  that  my  love  with  those  green 
eyes  where  blue  reflections  glint,  making  pretence  to  faint,  poured  all  my 
arm  along  her  warm  and  agile  waist,  vine  that  my  strife  had  torn.  "A 
pheasant!"  I  exclaimed  when  tired  with  too  much  pleasure.  Pheasant? 
A  bare-faced  lie. — ".  .  .  Hark  to  the  distant  horn.  ..."  "No,  'tis  the 
angelus  chiming  for  noon,  my  treasure." 

At  the  prick  of  noon  the  road,  as  at  a  signal  given,  turned,  supple,  and 
became  the  white  neck  of  a  swan,  within  whose  gaping  beak  a  lucent 
sapphire  shone,  offered,  with  gesture  mild,  to  the  wide  azure  heaven.  In 
the  midst  of  the  oval  sapphire  of  the  clearing  (we  had  strayed  for  a 
full  hour  or  more  beneath  the  forest  shade)  with  myriad  panes  Mortcerf 
through  calm  air  glittered  bright,  half  up  a  mountainside,  all  swathed 
in  vapours  light,  where  the  hot  sun  of  noon  its  rainbow  poured  for  me. 

For  a  sapphire,  fare  thee  well,  my  forest  of  Crecy  I 

SALE  OF  THE  "COIN  MUSARD." 

Tobaccos,  wines,  liqueurs,  grocery  "fancy  foods"  in  sooth,  bookshop 
and  stationers,  arbour  and  shooting  booth,  salon  for  Society,  garage  of 
the  T.C.F.,  and  "Mutuality  of  the  Citizens  of  Mortcerf" ;  inn  and  restau- 
rant to  boot,  my  luckless  "Coin  Musard,"  they  rip  thine  entrails  out, 
haphazard  empty  thee  before  thine  ample  sill  'neath  the  stout,  green 
canopy  which  keeps  the  amateur  who  o'er  the  stock  would  squint  from  in 
the  noontide  frying  his  precious  brains  until,  a  bidder  mad,  delirious, 
prey  to  the  dog-star  Sirius,  inopportunely  spying  a  shadowy  clock,  maybe, 
which  makes  a  single  lot  with  the  handle  of  a  pot  and  the  pot's  dim 
vacancy,  and  with  the  mocking  glint  of  a  pint  of  syrup — crying:  "A 
million  francs !  Not  more.  The  Devil  take  the  rest !  Sold. ' ' — with  his 
laughter's  roar  he  rips  his  satin  vest.  Here  naught  of  this  you'll  see. 
All's  ranged  in  order  due.    Good  cloth  is  the  canopy  and  Phoebus  can't 


98       SELEt^TED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

bite  through.  It  is  municipal,  official,  honest,  laves  with  freshness  magi- 
cal the  caps  that  criiwd  in  waves,  the  flood  of  bonnets  white  of  men  and 
maids  who  wait  wili  squeaking  chalk  to  write,  each  on  his  little  slate. 

On  Monsieur  Albin  Dumur  the  brant  of  the  sale  doth  weigh.  He's 
brisk,  bjit  I  am  sure  he's  sweating  blood  today.  Stout  he  seems,  but  to 
light-/  waltz  the  German  waltz  his  art  is  (I  swear  to  it,  Madame)  at 
your;,ov.ening  dancing-parties,  for  round  a  soup-tureen  he  lightly  waltzes 
ther^"  Offered  in  single  lot  with  nine  unshapely  spoons,  that  he  agitates 
a^S^lces  his  thunder,  Jupiter.  In  truth  his  ministry  to  humour  he  at- 
ttfties.  ''You  there,  Blanche  Lapine,  this  shines,  eh,  what?  Some  class! 
■f  Of  silver  ?  Better  still,  of  purest  plate,  my  lass. — Three  spoons 
e  g,(ine,  you  say,  Monsieur  Petitcornet?  In  the  soup-tureen  as  well 
•ae  lac^s  the  soupe  au  lait.  Three  francs!  three  francs!  three  francs  1 
three  f raises  ten!  who  bids  twenty,  eh? — Three  francs  twenty  .  .  ."  Si- 
lence. "What?  Have  you  no  more  to  say?"  The  mouths  are  tightly 
closed.  One  does  not  care  to  think  of  the  abyss  of  doubt  whence  their 
vexed  spirits  shrink.  "Three  francs  twenty? — Naught.  'Tis  still  as 
death. — Monsieur  Albin,  what  characters  are  these  your  journal's  page 
that  span  ?  Hush !  He  is  grave :  his  round  visage  becomes  oblong  and — 
toe — to  close  the  sale  he  strikes  upon  a  gong. 

Gay  birds  of  Paradise,  birds  tinted  like  the  sl^,  above  this  wave  of 
caps  for  a  brief  moment  fly!  Here  are  the  post-girls  twain,  here's  the 
instructress  sweet,  in  hats  from  Paris!  Ah!  How  lovely!  What  a 
treat!  To  the  hummingbirds  they  wear  the  beadle  bows  his  staff,  but 
with  a  tone  ...  To  Paris,  girls,  Paris  and  a  half.  The  fireman 's  helmet 
there  with  more  fastidious  art  is  poised  with  mien  gallant  o'er  an  ob- 
servant heart.  And  they  talk,  since  now  the  sale  halts  ere  it  onward 
goes,  of  all,  of  Monsieur  Albin,  who  calmly  sniffs  a  rose.  The  crowd  of 
country-folk  is  seated  and  content  (for  it's  Sunday),  'tis  polite  and 
ripe  for  merriment.  This  is  agreeable  and  sets  the  brain  aglow.  "It's 
late,  and  I  must  say  good-bye.  Dame  Perruchot.  I  fly.  Good-bye." — 
"So  soon,  sir  Pegasus?  Won't  you  wait?  Ah,  what  inconstancy  .  .  . 
to  thus  forget  your  slate.  .  .  ." — Inconstant,  I? — "Indeed,  you're  al- 
ways on  the  wing.  Hmm !  don 't  we  know  the  nest  to  which  your  fancies 
cling?"  Monsieur  Pegasus,  the  beadle,  can  go,  on  this  to  muse,  going 
with  eagle  eye  he  had  transfixed  a  goose. 

Through  ten  holes  of  the  canopy  the  sunlight  shining  fair,  presses  be- 
tween its  bars  the  assembly  prisoned  there.    Red  noses  shine.     You'd 


PAUL    FORT  99 

think  they  live.  The  quiverings  of  all  these  nostrils  make  a  noise  of 
captive  wings,  noses  like  owlet's  beak,  turkey's  wattle,  goose's  bill,  as  the 
dimensions  grow  becoming  prouder  still,  bill  of  raven,  \Tilture,  bird  of 
the  rhinoceros,  all  fenced  in  the  gold  coop  of  fairy  Carabosse. — But 
what  aerial  nose  of  those  the  coop  contains,  free,  soars  in  graceful  flight, 
winged  with  a  pair  of  panes?  Clerk  of  the  beadle-poet,  tell  me,  if  'tis 
your  nose,  borne  by  its  spectacles  toward  what  fair  dream  it  goes !  .  .  . 
Then  all  the  sunny  bars  in  one  gold  flood  combine.  Vague,  trembling, 
and  confused,  a  gentle  glow  it  jnelds,  mixed  with  the  charming  rose, 
friend  yonder  of  the  fields,  which,  circling  earth,  becomes  the  sunset's 
vermeil  shine.  "Blow  j'our  nose  there!  make  haste!  speak!  I  have 
brooms,  I  say,  from  your  thousand  palaces  to  brush  the  dirt  away." 
A  scarlet  handkerchief  to  every  nose  is  brought,  and  long  they  trumpet 
there,  immersed  in  pensive  thought. 

My  God,  I  do  not  know  just  how  the  thing  occurred.  She  must  have 
simply  set  her  casement-window  -wide.  But  she  is  very  pure  and,  all  the 
din  unheard,  she  reads  above  the  sale,  like  some  white  saint  enslded. 
I  do  not  know  her :  'Tis  a  young  girl ;  by  that  curl  of  jet  I  know  her  now, 
it  is  the  true  young  girl  ...  In  the  house  across  the  way,  yonder,  I  see 
her  turn  the  page  where  marching  kings  in  jewelled  beauty  burn.  Her 
room,  in  darkened  wood  bright  gildings  underline,  with  an  aureole 
obscure  surrounds  her  profile  still.  She's  fair,  entrancingly — indeed, 
perhaps  too  fine — propped  on  her  elbow  there  o'er  the  red  wdndow-sill. 
Lord !  Is  she  double  ?  Ah !  her  brow,  naught  may  surpass,  is  mirrowed 
now  nearby  in  this  oval  looking-glass.  .  .  .  No,  'tis  my  eyes  that  twice 
the  vision  pure  present,  so  deeply  am  I  moved,  so  much  am  I  content! 
Duslrr,  caressing  locks  her  rosy  cheeks  enfold,  and  her  white  fingers,  laid 
against  her  cheek.  Alas!  but  nothing  human  now  disturbs  her  wisdom 
cold.  The  page  turns.  All  in  gold  a  sti-utting  prince  doth  pass.  Ah  me, 
how  much  I  yearn  to  wave  a  handkerchief,  colour  of  da^vn  and  gold, 
which  from  my  hope  I  weave.  Ah,  let  her  but  look  do^^^l  from  her 
window  high  above  to  meet  these  gazing  eyes  that  overflow  with  love. 
Aie!  My  foot  is  crushed.  Ah,  well,  o'er  my  acts  I  have  no  power.  I 
leave  you  here,  Margot !    My  heart ' '  mounts  to  the  tower. ' ' 

Naught  further,  window  closed. — Apollo,  for  my  pains,  a  fiery  tongue 
protrudes  in  the  blank  window-panes.  ]\Iy  heart  returns  to  me,  dis- 
hevelled. Fatal  blow!  "Margot  .  .  .  give  me  thy  hand.  Where  art 
thou  then,  Margot?"  I  swoon  on  all  the  goods  that  before  me  they 
expose.     (In  a  huff  Margot  has  gone,  with  cause  enough,  God  knows.) 


100      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OP 

Fragility  of  man!  and  of  the  oval  glass,  which  mirrored  even  now  my 
bright  divinity.  'Tis  smashed  to  atoms  small.  Destroyed  for  aye,  alas! 
Ah!  all  is  dust.  .  .  .  Not  so,  upon  a  table,  see.  Monsieur  Albin  doth 
arise.  "I'll  pay!  You  shall  not  lose."— "Pay  then."— "The  price 
will  be,  how  much?" — "A  hundred  sous." — "Only  a  hundred  sous?" 
The  bargain  soon  is  sped.  All  its  beaks  the  poultry-house  has  raised 
above  my  head.  "No  more  than  a  hundred  sous?" — "  'Tis  the  price  of 
the  lot  entire." — "Eh,  what  did  you  say?" — "I  said,  good  sir,  the  lot 
entire."  Ophelia  of  the  glass,  pale  saint  unknown  to  me,  thy  Hamlet 
turns  again  in  his  dark  panoply.  Sigh,  my  heart !  What  things  one  may 
from  ' '  the  lot  entire ' '  derive,  an  ornamental  broom  and  egg-cups  thirty- 
five. — Stop  there !  Margot  being  gone,  I  seem  to  hear  you  say,  how  did 
you  manage  then  to  take  all  these  away? — Be  seated,  sceptic  throng, 
readers  and  readeresses.  Here  we  are  not  concerned  with  clocks  or 
oaken  presses.  Hark,  with  a  flaxen  thread,  a  tether  strong  but  slight,  I 
strung  the  egg-cups  all,  that  bevy  chastely  white.  Necklace  on  neck, 
and  broom  on  shoulder,  proud  of  soul,  forth  from  the  sale  I  went — as 
rigid  as  a  pole. 


Extracts  from  NEMOURS. 

HORIZONS. 

Upon  the  Paris  side,  but  towards  Nemours  the  white,  in  the  boughs  a 
bullfinch  sang  'neath  morning's  silvery  light. 

Upon  the  Orleans  side,  flown  towards  Nemours,  the  sweet  lark  at  the 
heart  of  day  carolled  above  the  wheat. 

Upon  the  Flanders  side  in  twilight's  golden  ray,  the  magpie  far  from 
Nemours  his  hoard  hath  hidden  away. 

Towards  Russia  and  Germany,  cawing,  this  eventide  the  troop  of  car- 
rion-crows quitted  the  countryside. 

But  in  my  garden-close,  by  Nemours  protected  well,  through  all  the 
starry  night  has  chanted  Philomel  I 


PAUL   FORT  101 

Extract  from  VELIZY. 

THE  MYSTIC  HOUR. 

All's  silent,  save  a  murmuring.  This  evening,  standing  in  the  wheat, 
I  hear  all  Nature  hearkening.  What  hour  is  this  that  flies  so  fleet  ?  .  .  . 
All's  silent,  save  this  murmuring. 

What  hour  from  the  far  belfry  comes  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand  to  die, 
against  my  ears'  attentive  drums?  or  living  in  my  heart  doth  vie  with 
its  beatings,  dreamily? 

The  earth  is  a  cathedral  gray.  The  host  of  the  moon  is  lifted  there. 
The  wheat  doth  murmur  an  ave  that,  to  the  belfry,  breezes  bear,  moved 
and  large  and  flown  away, 

and  all  the  wheat  is  bowed  in  prayer. 


Extracts  from  BALLADS  AND  CANTILENAS. 

OPHELIA. 
To  the  sad  wind  of  the  woods,  something  the  night  doth  croon 

"Ask  her  on  what  she  broods  in  the  stream,  the  rosy  moon." 

"In  the  stream  where  swims  a  rose,  a  rush  to  drink  doth  stoop." 

Ophelia's  cheek  doth  droop  towards  the  reflected  rose  of  her  arm  in 
waters  deep,  and  all  Ophelia  goes  .  .  . 

What  has  she  said,  the  moon,  to  the  sad  wind  of  the  woods? 

"A  rush?    'Tis  slie,  poor  mime,  who  culls  eternal  dream." 

THE  QUEEN  AND  THE  KING. 

— My  master  dear,  my  king,  dost  thou  know  how  much  they  love,  my 
breast,  these  arms  that  cling,  these  violet  eyes  above? 


102      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

]\Iy  mouth  tells  to  the  wind  what  to  thee  it  dares  not  tell.  Thou  hast 
taken  me  to  laugh,  and  to  weep  and  groan  as  well. 

— O  queen  of  lineage  high,  no  more  content,  impart  to  the  wind  that  is 
not  I,  for  the  wind  torments  its  heart, 

the  quest  at  time  that  mocks.  And  all  the  tale  betray  to  my  grey  tow- 
ers' weathercocks  where  the  wind  pipes  all  day! 

HAMLET. 

Hamlet,  whom  the  cracked  brains  of  others  importune,  has  made  thff 
tour  of  the  world ;  but  it  avails  him  naught.  He  still  sees  Elsinore  be- 
neath the  waning  moon. 

Hamlet  has  made  the  tour  of  the  world,  as  he  does  all,  in  thought. 

His  shadow  on  the  wall  that  doth  towards  Rome  incline,  he  hears  the 
nightingale,  clear  warbler,  passion-fraught.  Imperial  Caesar's  ash  be- 
tween the  stones  doth  shine. 

Hamlet  has  made  the  tour  of  the  world,  as  he  does  all,  in  thought. 

Three  times  has  Hamlet  made  the  tour  of  his  chateau.  And  this  then 
is  the  world !  And  Yorick  is  the  moon  ?  Yorick's  skull  ?  In  what  a  coil 
of  madness  he  is  caught ! 

Hamlet  has  made  the  tour  of  the  world,  as  he  does  all,  in  thought. 

Beneath  the  oblong  tower  that  dusks  the  esplanade,  a  father's  phantom 
pale  begins  his  promenade.  Why,  what  a  narrow  world !  ' '  Sire,  would 
you  wandering  fare? 

Thrice  I've  made  the  tour  of  the  world,  and  was  sure  I'd  meet  you 
there." 

KING  CLAUDIUS. 

Cypress,  geraniums,  bleak  hedge  of  my  parterre,  from  the  chase  I 
come  once  more,  with  grief  that  sharper  gnaws.  'Tis  still  in  my  black 
park  the  entrance  sinister,  when  evening  o'er  the  world  its  golden  mantle 
draws, 


PAUL   FORT  103 

still  the  entry  of  a  brother  that  has  his  brother  slain.  And  'tis  my 
dame,  the  Queen,  who  is  the  cause  of  all.  To  the  high  tower  we  mount 
and  gaze  upon  the  main,  to  dreadful  torpor  stilled,  a  sea  of  pitch  and 
gaU. 

From  his  barque  Prince  Hamlet  leaps.  Home  from  the  jousts  he 
fares.  Is  he  mad?  How  red  he  is!  He's  sweating,  this  dear  child! 
Alas!  Go  sound  his  heart,  sweet  Gertrude,  mother  mild,  while  We  to 
hide  Ourselves  descend  six  hundred  stairs. 

At  each  loophole's  chink  the  sun  a  lowlier  beam  doth  show.  'Tis  the 
hour  when  in  the  vaults  one  sees  the  rising  moon  in  the  eyes  of  monstrous 
rats.  But,  tender  mother,  go  to  dry  Our  noble  son  lest  he  contract  a 
rheum. 

This  evening  he  shall  see  this  tranquil  face  of  mine  (he  loves  such 
games)  along  the  lighted  passage  wend,  that  in  his  room  is  lost — the 
pathway  to  the  end.  Madame,  you  need  not  fear.  I  shall  have  drunk 
the  wine. 


FORTINBRAS. 

I,  brave  Prince  Fortinbras,  who  close  this  tragic  pother,  enter  to  say 
my  phrase.  Brief  is  my  role  and  slight.  I  march  upon  the  son,  having 
o'erleapt  the  mother.    Emotion's  at  the  full  and  horror  at  its  height. 

I  come  with  trump  of  gold  to  terminate  the  play.  Alone,  for  that  vast 
horde,  my  army,  comes  not.  Bah!  What  Would  you?  In  the  gloom  of 
the  flies  they  lose  their  way,  and  wander  in  the  wings.  At  last !  Tara- 
tata! 

My  blue  cloak,  since  it  drags,  with  blood  is  doubtless  weighed.  The 
curtain  a  quick  veil  to  my  useful  phrase  affords,  hiding  the  stalwart 
fists  of  my  army  that  I  aid,  I,  brave  Prince  Fortinbras,  to  haul  upon 
the  cords. 

Elsinore  doth  reappear.  0  stoutly  tug  the  strings  I  And  at  my  side 
Shakespeare  is  pulling  in  the  wings. 


104  SELECTED   POEMS   AND   BALLADS   OP 

LAMENT 
OF  THE  LITTLE  WHITE  HOESB. 

The  little  horse  'mid  winter's  height,  ah,  what  a  gallant  heart  he 
bore  1    He  was  a  little  pony  white,  all  behind  and  he  before. 

He  never  saw  the  Spring  arise  to  gild  the  dreary  landscape  o'er* 
He  never  saw  the  sunny  skies,  either  behind  or  before. 

He  was  contented,  evermore,  drawing  the  lads  of  the  neighbourhood 
through  the  rain's  unceasing  pour,  all  behind  and  he  before. 

His  little  cart  behind  him  went,  chasing  the  jaunty  tail  he  wore.  It! 
was  then  he  was  content,  all  behind  and  he  before. 

But  one  day,  beneath  the  winter's  blight,  one  day  when  he  had  been 
so  good,  he  died  of  a  stroke  of  lightning  white,  all  behind  and  he  before. 

He  is  dead  without  seeing  the  Spring  arise.  Ah,  what  a  gallant  heart 
he  bore!  He  is  dead  without  seeing  the  sunny  skies  either  behind  or 
before. 


THE  SADNESS  OF  MAN. 


THE  REPOSE  OF  THE  SOUL  IN  THE  WOOD  OF  L'HAUTIL. 

1910. 


THROUGH  MELANCHOLY. 

When  in  forest  depths  I  hear  the  mourning  of  the  mere,  red  with  the 
eve  that  fades, 

with  piercing  rushes  full  rising  above  the  pool,  like  a  heart  transfixed 
with  blades, 


PAUL   FORT  105 

I  say :  ah !  who  would  come  far  from  his  native  home,  seduced  by  love's 
false  dream, 

who  could  with  heart  unbowed  enter  this  gloomy  wood  without  a  pain 
extreme  ? 

Yet  someone's  drawing  near.     'Neath  the  alder-grove  I  hear  a  man  in 
the  shadows  trail 

dolorous  tani,  towards  thee !    He  is  in  extremity,  phantom  rancourless 
and  pale. 

Call,  pool  of  forests  dim,  pool  where  the  wild  ducks  swim,  man  and 
night  come  tardily 

toward  thy  surface  so  morose  where  the  tawny  pinion  glows  of  the 
sunset  slow  to  die  .  .  . 

The  stag  bellows  wearily,  and  suddenly  doth  flee,  a  dog  howls  in  the 
distant  plain. 

The  owl,  in  the  underwood,  shivers,  eyes  closed,  and  toward  the  rising 
moon  doth  sigh. 

Welcome,  0  dolorous  pool,  this  being  sorrowful  who  comes  to  drown 
his  pain 

nor  could  with  careless  mien  enter  this  gloomy  wood  were  he  not  in 
woe  supreme, 

did  not  Death  his  soul  invite,  through  melancholy's  blight,  to  forsake 
this  world  .  .  .  'tis  I. 

THE  TERROR. 

No,  I  did  not  dare — but  find  no  excuses,  for  my  mind  the  poet  in  mo 
impeaches — 

I  did  not  dare  to  die  in  the  pool  that  shows  the  sky  on  fire  beneath  the 
beeches. 


106      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

when  I  saw  before  me  rise,  to  tlie  zephyr's  dolorous  moan,  the  hypo- 
crite -wdth  downcast  eyes, 

the  ghoul  with  velvet  arm  (one  hand  on  my  heart,  and  one  pressed 
to  my  brow) — the  Terror 

who,  directing  my  scrutiny,  this  evening  showed  to  me  Hell,  painted 
on  that  mirror, 

and  there,  in  yonder  glade,  beneath  the  oak's  dim  shade,  crawling 
running,  all  astir, 

the  Phantoms  of  my  soul,  lone  or  in  chains  they  were,  on  the  far  side 
of  the  pool. 

A  glade?    The  cavernous  rim,  the  dire,  sepulchral  sill,  of  Hell  which 
cumbers,  grim, 

The  Tree  of  Good  and  111,  kindled  suddenly,  whence  rises  the  sput- 
tering dew  in  smoke, 

on  whose  trunk,  in  that  red  light,  Moses,  upright,  bent,  upright,  breaks 
the  Tables  of  the  Law; 

the  Tree  round  which  Virgil  bears,  bowed  low  beneath  his  yoke, 
Aeneas,  who  bears  Anchises 

beneath  the  breath  and  brow  of  the  Bard,  that  blinded  roamer  who 
sang  of  Troy,  old  Homer, 

eyes  like  cherries  burst,  dread  ghost  who  towards  his  treasure  fares, 
illumined  motes  disposed 

where  the  thunder  flares  and  peals.    Like  a  pet  dOg  at  his  heels  comes 
stoop-shouldered  Dante,  struck 

by  the  whips,  that  hate  doth  impel,  of  his  heroes  who  scourge  him 
well,  and  'tis  the  merest  luck 

if  by  a  leap  he  can  surmount  the  delirious  group  of  Cervantes  and 
Shakespeare 


PAUL   FORT  107 

who  'neath  the  fetters  stoop  of  Othello,  Sancho  Pauza,  Don  Quixote 
and  King  Lear. 

Toward  the  steaming  tarn  he  races  o'er  whose  depths  there  swim  the 
faces  of  Milton  and  Lucifer, 

where  Baudelaire,  rowed  thereon  by  his  cold  Don  Juan,  in  flames  doth 
disappear 

before  the  shallop  fair  upon  which  comes  Moliere  to  fall,  a  statue  of 
stone, 

and  that 's  all :  the  barque  goes  down.    Remaineth  gloom  alone  and  at 
my  side  the  Terror 

who,  brusquely,  by  his  pallor,  forth  from  the  forest  wild  chases  me  like 
a  child. 

SHADE  OF  THE  WOODS. 

I  yearn  with  the  weariness  of  my  life,  laid  waste  and  lost  in  the  woods 
the  zephyr  sways. 

I  yearn  with  the  dreariness  of  my  undirected  days  in  the  tufted  for- 
est's shade. 

There  to  groan  in  my  happiness,  there  I  feel  that  I  am  lost.    All  is 
tuned  to  my  weariness. 

I  say  it.    Joy  doth  brood  for  me  in  the  tufted  wood  that  by  no  path 
is  crossed. 


THE  HAPPY  MAN. 

I  alone,  the  Heavens  decide,  gain  full  felicity.    Pray  whither  shall  I 
flee  my  happiness  to  hide? 

How  fly  the  crooked  thorn  that,  with  malicious  spine,  is  loth  to  free, 
untorn,  this  happy  heart  of  mine? 


108      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

I  bear,  o'er  the  blasted  heath  where  Joy  doth  wings  supply,  I  bear 
along  with  my  great  happiness,  to  Death 

my  iron  laughter,  rattle  that  undismayed  doth  roll,  of  deathless  joys 
the  chattel ;  my  body  and  my  soul. 

Quickly  the  goal  I  'd  reach,  softly  descend  the  breeze.    My  laughter  I 
would  teach  to  the  Eumenides. 

I  am  happy!     I  alone  this  gift  from  Fate  could  wring  because  my 
lyre  has  known  how  to  sing  everything. 

Extracts  from 
REPOSE   OF   THE   SOUL   IN  THE   WOOD   OF  L'HAUTIL. 


DREAM  OF  THE  FIRST  DAY. 

Rest  in  the  wood,  my  soul,  on  the  past  no  longer  brood,  on  that  van- 
ished bitterness,  0  soul  in  lassitude,  but  the  honeysuckle  part,  your 
wrinkled  joys  unfurl.  The  country  is  more  sweet  than  is  a  changing 
pearl. 

In  the  forest  of  I'Hautil,  my  soul,  your  strength  recall.  'Tis  a  most 
shady  wood,  quite  young  and  very  small,  crowning  a  towering  hill,  re- 
mote in  ether  pale,  which  o'er  the  Oise  and  Seine  doth  dominate  the 
vale. 

Fin-d  'Oise  one  sees  from  here,  its  swaying  barques  afloat  on  clear  water, 
and  Triel  that  gently  lulls  my  thought:  of  a  belfry  of  Triel  the  voice  to 
me  is  borne,  its  belfry  rose-enwreathed  that  bathes  in  golden  com. 

My  woes  of  those  black  days  in  Paris,  where  are  they?  Yonder  two 
trains  rush  past,  a  pair  of  swallows  gay.  One  sees  where,  drunkenly,  from 
Chantcloupe  there  climbs  the  path  the  vintners  trace  to  Tir  among  the 
vines, 

which,  hospitable  sight,  is  with  a  bench  endowed,  as  green  as  sprout- 
ing hope,  whose  gestures  bid  me  gain  this  realm,  ascend  the  throne,  god 
V     of  the  vintners  proud.     Rejoice,  rejoice,  my  soul,  one  sees  Pissefon- 
taine  .  .  . 


PAUL    FORT  109 

THE  MARRIAGE 
OF  THE  OISE  AND  THE  SEINE. 

Here,  where  are  grouped  Fin-d'Oise,  Maureeourt,  Andresy,  Conflans- 
Sainte-Honorine — what  mellow  names  are  thejM  pasan  of  chiming  bells 
for  a  wedding  one  would  say  ...  0  poesy,  0  poesy,  0  poesj' !  .  .  . 

here,  under  the  blue  eyes  of  these  four  villages,  the  radiant  Seine 
made  one  with  the  lovely  Oise  one  sees.  Good.  Mount  upon  the  bridge 
that  rocks  suspended  there.  Embrace  your  well-beloved,  and  now  gaze 
otherwhere. 

Feminine  is  the  Oise  and  masculine  the  Seine.  My  e3*es  are  witnesses, 
besides  the  proof  is  plain  that  for  their  journeying  o'er  many  a  green- 
sward wide  the  Seine  presents  his  ann  to  his  too-youthful  bride. 

0  vaporous  marriage  seen  from  the  bridge  suspended  there,  for  all 
an  amorous  hour  beneath  my  eyes  I  had  this  vision,  you  appeared  one  of 
those  nuptials  glad  where  'neath  a  single  veil  unite  the  happy  pair, 

the  bridal  veil,  olie!  Still  better.  At  the  call  of  the  image,  on  I  run 
with  fancy  uncontrolled.  I  saw  them,  'neath  the  palms  of  poplars  bright 
with  gold,  rush  to  embrace  as  'twere  Virginia  and  her  Paul. 

Paul  and  Virginia  wed?  Indeed,  I  tell  you  true.  One  bore  a  cap 
bedecked  with  a  French  flag  (I  attest  that  so  it  seemed  to  me  that  peace- 
ful barge  at  rest ) ,  t  'other  a  chain  of  ships,  scintillant  with  the  dew. 

How  pure  they  were !  ...  No  doubt  before  this  wooing  sweet  the  Oise 
had  some  affairs,  the  Seine  at  times  did  8tra^^  'Tis  no  concern  of  mine. 
Friends,  I  've  a  mind  discreet.  Besides  what  man  would  mar  the  raptures 
of  this  day ! 

The  rattle  of  a  helm  turns  yonder.  Ah,  it  is  a  pretty  toy,  in  sooth, 
the  future  babe  to  dower,  the  heir  who  will  arrive  honourably  in  his 
hour.    He  shall  be  called  the  Eure,  born  'mid  the  cabbages. 

A  joyful  wedding-dance  the  rout  around  you  draws,  Seine,  lordly  male, 
and  you,  little  gosling,  little  Oise,  the  banks,  the  hills,  the  vines  amid  the 
vaporous  air  dance,  and  upon  my  arm  dances  my  sweetheart  fair. 


110      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Taratata!  And  now,  to  the  trumpet's  martial  blare,  to  leap  into  the 
barques  the  wedding-guests  prepare.  Let  all  these  joyous  scamps  be 
piloted  by  me.    Charming  couple,  you  must  run  to  met  your  destiny. 

"0  joy!  Then  we  must  run! — Ocean  your  Fate  will  be. — Then  we 
must  run,  alas? — And  it  is  death,  the  sea. — Sombre  reflection. — No.  At 
one  end  you  will  die  .  .  .  at  the  other  even  now  the  marriage  draweth 
nigh." 

And  I  should  like  to  know  how — lovers  ever  fond — in  the  multitude 
of  streams  that  mingle  in  the  sky,  you  can  again  retrieve  your  droplets 
blue  and  blonde,  to  go  and  hide  yourselves  in  Earth's  profundity, 

and  rise  and  join  again  where  all  delights  the  eye — here,  where  are 
grouped  Fin-d'Oise,  Maurecourt,  Andresy,  Conflans-Sainte-Honorine — 
What  mellow  names  are  they !  paean  of  chiming  bells  for  a  wedding  one 
would  say  .  .  . 

0  poesy,  0  poesy,  0  poesy!  .  .  . 

ODE  TO  PISSEFONTAINE. 

Muses,  I  dub  myself,  despite  each  rival  claim,  with  haughty  heraldry. 
King  of  Pissefontaine. — Count  if  you  choose,  but  king  is  not  too  much,  I 
hold. — With  lance  in  rest  I  charge  all  the  pretenders  bold  who  hie  them 
hither  armed  though  but  with  stoups  of  ale,  across  the  fields  and  vines 
my  title  to  assail. 

Who  more  than  I  to  sing  this  village  would  desire,  lover  of  mornings 
clear,  perched  high  above  them  all,  where  twenty  lusty  cocks,  for  lack 
of  village  spire,  from  the  roofs,  to  the  countryside  the  first  good-morrow 
call?  Who  passes  happy  days  in  the  free  atmosphere  to  see  it  on  its 
rock  in  equipoise  appear,  to  count  the  houses  fair  that  o'er  the  bushes 
spring  like  herds  of  little  goats  buoyantly  gambolling? 

'Tis  I.  Is  it  not  I? — more  proofs?  you're  still  in  doubt?  come,  drink, 
and  suffer  me,  drinking,  to  search  them  out — who,  then,  descends  superb 
in  dawning 's  golden  shrine,  his  graceful  calf  caressed  by  tendrils  of  the 
vine,  his  flowing  cloak  bedecked  with  drops  of  crystal  dew,  towards  the 
castle  of  my  choice,  this  jolly  tavern  blue,  and,  glass  in  hand,  without, 
fearing  no  whit  the  prod  of  horns,  to  sleeping  husbands  doth  sing  this 


PAUL   FORT  111 

gay  aubade  (for  a  brief  instant  brushed  by  kisses  circumspect  since  for 
eye  alone  the  right  of  jamhage  do  I  exact),  then  in  a  rocking-chair 
plunged  like  a  goodly  king — this  throne  a  Briton  left  to  pay  his  reckon- 
ing— with  rapture  o'er  the  square  the  slender  limes  doth  view,  quivering 
in  the  ^^^nd  as  they  are  wont  to  do,  while  in  the  hollow  roads  my  subject 
marmots  go  far  as  Triel  to  roll  the  casks  of  picolo — letting  my  wits,  still 
sharp,  suit  to  the  cadence  gay  of  their  stentorian  tread  the  rhythm  of 
my  lay? 

THE  GOD  OF  SUNNY  DAYS. 

Proud  yearning  of  the  wind  above  the  forest  deeps,  of  a  wind  that 
vivifies  each  barrier  that  it  leaps,  perfumed  wth  grain  that  'neath  its 
rule  is  bended  low,  prompted  me  all  at  once  to  leave  this  world  and  go 
to  heaven,  among  the  leaves  down  far-off  vistas  lost.  Already,  both  my 
arms,  'gainst  hoary  trunks  uptossed,  I  crucified,  all  nij-self  to  the  tem- 
pest did  resign,  to  Boreas  whose  pale  arms  like  smoothest  marble  shine, 
to  let  myself  depart  with  all  the  little  trees — But  before  me  dropped  the 
leaves.  'Twas  dead  calm.  Not  a  breeze.  Reclining  at  my  feet  mysteri- 
ous herbage  spread,  softly.  No  single  flower  was  missing  from  its  place, 
and  I  seemed  in  woods  serene  to  hear  great  Pan  who  said :  "Behold,  it  is 
Paul  Fort,  the  god  of  sunny  days."  Then,  as  my  long,  draped  arms,  too 
widely  stretched,  once  more  became  my  body's  sheath,  at  that  veiy  in- 
stant, lo,  I  felt  a  pair  of  horns  from  out  my  forehead  gi'ow. 

PRAYER 
TO  CONJURE  AWAY  THE  RAIN. 

The  chirping  frog  his  joy  betrays.  It  rains  upon  the  Seine  and  Oise. 
0  followers  of  Saint  Nicaise,  born  at  Triel,  hard  by  Pontoise, 

Saint  Egobille  and  good  Saint  Mille,  now  intercede  with  God,  I  pray, 
that  he  from  heaven  may  clear  away  these  clouds,  the  hue  of  camomile. 

Culling  strawberries,  one  gets  a  chill,  picking  raspberries,  one  is 
numbed,  I  find. — If  this  should  last  my  chair  too  well  will  know  the 
weight  of  my  behind. 

Saint  Mille  and  good  Saint  ifigobille,  both  natives  of  Triel,  appeal  to 
God!    Without  this  aid  of  yours  my  family  must  stay  indoors. 


112      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

THE    PRAYER    GRANTED. 

A  lull! — Then  quick,  the  moment  cull!  Take  full  advantage  of  that 
lull !    Snails  shine  on  every  side  of  me.    figobille  and  Mille — merci. 

THE  ABANDONED  CHAPEL. 

In  a  pool  it  is  reflected  fair,  where  all  the  frogs  to  sing  are  fain,  where 
the  moonlight  drinks,  and  where  clouds  descend  to  weep  their  rain. 

'Tis  a  small,  abandoned  church,  that  has  no  cross,  no  bell,  no  coloured 
glass.  Saints,  Virgin,  altar — where  are  they  ?  No  soul  doth  hither  come 
to  pray. 

The  grass-blades  form  its  flock  devout  and  the  stock,  that  from  the 
fissured  wall  and  ruined  window  peereth  out  with  shiverings  continual. 

Scarce  seen  when  on  the  road  you  pass,  still  through  the  bay  one  may 
descry,  o'er  the  heap  that  once  its  altar  was,  the  stainless  azure  of  its 
sky. 

Beneath  a  willow's  wan  regret,  'tis  the  swallow's  mournful  friend. 
Within  its  heart  uncounted  spiders  spin  webs  that  with  crystal  pearls 
are  wet. 

'Tis  a  sweet,  small  church  that  holds  in  fee  all  treasures  on  the  earth 
arrayed:  dim  silence,  steadfast  poverty,  shade,  and  the  chastity  of 
shade. 

All  treasures?  alas,  my  God,  there  lies  dead  in  its  crypt  illusion  pale, 
despite  its  roof  that  toward  the  skies  uplifts  a  swaying  birch-tree  frail. 

Like  two  hands  locked  in  ardent  prayer  o'er  palms  Our  Saviour  sanc- 
tifies, the  two  halves  of  the  roof  arise :  'tis  an  abandoned  chapel  bare, 

that  shakes  through  all  its  ivy-leaves,  door  open  to  the  stranger's 
tread.  The  night  of  stars  it  there  receives;  'tis  the  cabin  of  the  shep- 
herd-lad, 

and  'tis  my  refuge  .  .  .  There  I  find  asylum  in  my  sadness  deep.  And 
often  it  has  seen  me  weep — why  ?  for  no  cause,  to  ease  my  mind 


PAUL   FORT  113 

my  temples  couched  upon  the  stones,  brows  that  the  stock  hath  coifed 
anew  (it  even  takes  for  orisons  the  sobbing  that  my  grief  betrays) , 

by  day  when  I  have  naught  to  do,  at  midnight  when  I  bay  the  fays. 


Extracts  from  the 

NOTE  BOOK  OF  ROMANCES  AND  LAMENTS. 

THE  ITALIAN. 

"Sing,  I  tell  the  Italian:  bring  your  barrel-organ.     Sing." — To  his 
organ  he  chanted.    Ah, 

the  wretch,  he  yesterday  so  wiled  my  soul  away.    0  mandoli-mandola! 

The  ocean,  ta"wny  and  rose,  tonight,  a  nonchalant  rose,  beats  the  em- 
bankment wall, 

and  I  let  from  my  thoughts  depart  my  fair  singer  or  (my  heart  being 
not  so  prodigal) 

I  dream  him  .  .  .  But  he:  "Signor,  if  I  sing  you  must  not  pore  on 
yourself,  the  sea,  this  place 

of  shining  sand :  my  voice  without  me  is  empty  noise.    Scrutinize  well 
my  face." 

LAMENT 
OF  THE  RUINED  CHATEAUX  IN  WINTER. 

Lusignan,  les  Baux,  Coucy,  white  towers  in  winter's  fee,  and  autumn's 
king,  Saint-Cloud, 

where  shrewd  the  wind  doth  blow,  mocked  by  the  whirling  snow,  is 
it  not  sad  for  you  ? 

This  lake  that  the  reeds  enslave,  how  its  shivering  wave  annuls  the 
desolate  sheen 


114      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

of  Lusignan's  chateau  that  coldly  gleams  below  in  the  baths  of  Melu- 
sine! 

This  hold  on  the  hillside  low,  stiffly  reared  les  Baux,  gapes  to  all  the 
tempests  chill 

that  0  'er  its  hearth-stones  rage.    It  complains,  and  perhaps  with  age  its 
crumbling  stones  are  ill. 

The  five  towers  of  my  Coucy  (I  also  speak  to  thee),  what  art  thou 
'neath  the  silver  stain 

of  the  hoar  frost?  five  white  owls  that  shiver  beneath  the  cowls  of  a 
foliage  wet  with  rain? 

My  friends,  this  way  repair ;  direct  your  glances  there ;  remark  it  well, 
'tis  Saint-Cloud. 

Since  one  December  fell,  ah!  piteous  to  tell!  there's  nothing  left  to 
view. 

Lusignan,  les  Baux,  Coucy,  white  toWers  in  winter's  fee,  (and  Saint- 
Cloud  no  longer  there) 

is  it  not  bitter  pain  life's  semblance  to  retain  when  death  is  in  the  air? 


PAUL  FORT  115 


THE  ETERNAL  ADVENTURE. 

Followed  by 

IN  GATINAIS. 

1911. 

THE  ETERNAL  ADVENTURE. 

Cceiir  tendre  mats  affranclii  du  serment. 

Paul  Verlaine. 

BOOK  I. 

{First  pages.) 

I. 

I  felt  a  limit  should  be  set  to  these  joys  that  rouse  such  envious  strife 
and  in  the  arms  of  Margaret  I  had  resolved  to  end  my  life. 

Therefore  I  said  to  life,  **My  dream,  thus  I  would  have  you  close. 
You  seem  like  a  recital  that  extends  beyond  its  wonted  time,  and  ends, 

ends  in  a  murmuring,  alas  I  where  the  white  bed  doth  vigil  keep, 
whither,  with  drooping  head,  doth  pass  the  speaker  almost  fast  asleep. ' ' 

II. 

*'No,"  says  my  love,  my  faithful  friend  (what  new  dawn  in  thy  soul 
doth  gleam?),  "it  is  not  finished  yet,  your  dream,  not  yet  doth  your  re- 
cital end." 

I  heard,  "A  free  release  I  give  from  my  arms,  dear  soul  in  discontent," 
then  wakened,  still  a  prisoner,  pent  by  all  this  life  I  yet  must  live  1 


116      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

"From  this  life  of  love  devoid  of  blame." — 1  heard — and  with  heart 
that  could  not  break  sighed  toward  the  hearth:  "Extinguished  flame," 
but  straightway  found  myself  awake. 

Ill, 

Did  I  against  my  will  obey?  Yes,  I  wish  to  live  in  joy  profound,! 
chase  the  daybreak  where  the  chime  doth  sound — a  kick  for  the  hearth- 
stone's ashes  grey, 

quite  dead:  let  us  run,  life  glad  and  feigned! — The  heavens  with 
purest  rose  are  stained,  the  fields  an  azure  dew  doth  hide.  I  go,  so  get 
you  gone,  my  dear. 

The  hedge — the  road — ^the  world  so  wide.  Even  as  the  day  my  sight 
is  clear!  .  .  .  (this  bourne  alone  is  manifest  where,  'neath  a  poplar's 
shade,  I  rest). 

IV. 

No  image  through  my  tears  doth  pass — ^tears  both  of  gladness  and 
distress — save  of  my  grief  and  happiness,  a  pebble  dark,  a  pebble  white. 

Two  pebbles  on  the  road  displayed  for  my  shadow  two  bright  eyes 
have  made.  Hark,  frenzied  soul  that  doubts,  my  shade  squints  in  a! 
fashion  to  affright. 

The  swallow  high  in  heaven  doth  fly.  Piercing  the  azure  comes  his 
cry.    I  've  time  enough  to  scan  the  sky,  all  day  it  will  be  fair  and  bright. 

V. 

Here,  by  this  roadside  pastoral,  with  clasping  hands  to  crown  my 
knees,  seated  must  I  in  thought  recall  all  of  our  secret  miseries  ? 

Smiling  as  gentle  zephyrs  toy  with  my  long  hair,  my  mustaches,  pray] 
can  I  not  gain  the  air  of  joy  while  I  regard  my  shadow  grey? 

Freedom  from  love  have  I  not  found,  who  down  the  distant  road  doth 
press  and  gives  no  sign  of  turning  round?  .  .  .  Yes.  Then  am  I  con- 
tented?   Yes. 


PAUL   FORT  117 

VI. 

Swallows,  behold  my  joy  and  pride!  Towards  you  I  raise  this  face 
of  mine,  and  towards  thy  zenith's  silver  shine,  sweet  heaven!  I  feau 
the  countryside 

as  I  fear  the  past.  Let  us  agree  to  theorise  upon  the  themes  of  time 
to  come,  eternity,  eyes  still  directed  toward  our  dreams. 

Alas !  to  seek  for  naked  truth  and  only  images  surprise,  0  heaven,  that 
on  thy  silver  roof  spring  from  the  tears  that  cloud  my  eyes. 

VII. 

Face  worn  with  many  a  scarlet  stream  whereon  the  eyes  of  angels 
dream,  suffusing  red  doth  swift  o'errun  this  gulf  that  feels  thy  breath, 
0  sun. 

Behold  the  brazier  of  the  dawn  that  in  my  eyes  doth  lose  its  sigh :  in 
vapour  all  my  tears  have  gone,  pink  mist  to  merge  with  flaming  8k5\ 

Let  us  drop  our  kindled  glance  to  where  Nature,  all  fresh  and  green, 
doth  shine,  to  meet  the  contemplative  stare,  the  fresh  regard  of  browsing 
kine. 

VIIL 

Mornings  of  Spring,  their  candid  light! — Formerly  when  I  was  a 
child,  I  oft  caressed  the  freshness  mild  of  the  dawn  upon  my  curtains 
white. 

The  door  swings  wide.  0  freshness  sweet,  stir  of  my  mother's  snowy 
feet,  when,  all  dawn,  I  gave  myself,  elate,  to  her  kisses,  fresh  and 
delicate. 

The  window  gaped.  Joy  undefiled !  I  uttered  cries  of  ecstacy.  One 
cannot  always  be  a  child  nor  evermore  a  poet  be. 

IX. 

Alas !  and  as  today,  indeed,  I  saw  the  nonchalant,  gi'azing  herd  drink 
the  Spring  grasses  lightly  stirred  on  the  blue  crystal  of  the  mead. 


118      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OP 

Trembling  with  joy  and  young  desire  while  to  those  kisses  fond  I 
turned  eyes  where  love 's  fires  but  newly  burned, — houp !  I  removed  my 
night  attire. 

Nor  did  my  dressing  hold  me  long.  I  yearned  with  instant  speed  to 
fly  to  the  curlew's  call,  the  swallow's  song,  cravated  like  a  butterfly. 

X. 

Today  I  fear  the  past,  uncouth  mirages  that  the  fields  deform,  my 
shadow  tinted  like  the  storm,  and  all  the  fancies  of  my  youth. 

Once  as  I  chased  the  curlew  grey  I  fell  in  the  pond.  Three  months  I 
lay  in  bed  and  deemed  it  azure  sky,  where  Mother  crooned  a  lullaby. 

Another  day  with  joy  aglow.  .  .  .  "Why  does  this  memory  rise  and 
blast  its  fairness,  God?    I  do  not  know.    But  I  believe  I  fear  the  past. 

XI. 

Ah,  then  I  "wished  to  die,  to  search  bright  Paradise  the  first  of  all  .  .  ^ 
Softly  the  pealing  bell  did  call  to  the  painted  heavens  that  decked  the 
church  .  .  . 

With  the  help  of  God,  on  His  breast  to  be.  His  loved  one,  that  fierce 
angel  shy  who  beats  his  pinions  jealously  when  other  angels  come  too 
nigh ! 

Hosannah!  In  my  fancy  wild  these  arms  to  beat  the  skies  did  seem 
.  .  .  One  cannot  always  be  a  child,  and  who  can  realise  his  dream? 

XII. 

And  here  I  am.  (God  can  testify  in  youth  how  proud  a  lad  was  I.) 
Here  I  am  to  mourn  a  vanished  day. — "What  is  that  dust-cloud  far 

away  ? ' ' 

Heart,  jealous,  fervent,  quick  to  trust,  what  art  thou  now?  This 
wretched  stone !  And  with  my  soul  what  have  I  done? — "Who's  coming 
yonder  in  the  dust?" 


PAUL   FORT  119 

Your  heads  the  hurricane  has  bowed,  flowers  of  my  sensibility.  "At 
present  I  can  plainly  see  the  gypsies  come  in  motley  crowd. 

XIII. 

"They'll  soon  be  here." — To  the  senses,  heart,  thou  didst  resign  thy 
sovereignty.  And  thou,  my  soul,  the  dwelling  art  of  that  cold  demon, 
Mockery. 

Fervour  ecstacy,  fair  childhood's  dower,  into  what  limbo  were  you 
cast?  Why  do  I  still  invoke  your  power  since  I  am  frightened  by  the 
past? 

Before  me  my  remorses  pour  slowly,  in  rain  that  does  not  tire,  black 
demons  sparks  have  frosted  o'er,  which,  as  they  take  their  form,  take 
fire. 

XIV. 

0,  how  thy  dust  is  dark  and  drear,  staining  with  blackness  all  the 
plain,  grimy  road!  Ah  me,  to  see  again  the  peasant's  golden  sunlight 
clear. 

Here's  the  whole  horde  of  mountebanks.  Whips  crack.  The  dust  in 
tumult  flees.  The  horses,  heaving  wiry  flanks,  drag  the  complaining 
axle-trees. 

Great  oaths  of  energetic  heads.  Clumping  shoes.  The  stir  a  trumpet 
spreads.  And  gypsy  faces  dark  with  tan  smile  at  the  windows  of  the 
van. 

XV. 

How  my  regard,  at  war  with  fate,  0  you  whose  hands  the  osiers  plait, 
the  magic  eyes  of  one  doth  note  who  from  her  car  with  tuneful  throat 

ehanteth  of  love's  inhuman  thrall,  to  the  guzla,  thrummed  in  minor 
key  by  a  handsome,  lithe  romanichal  on  a  little  horse  from  Hungary. 

Seeking  adventure,  courting  strife,  I  followed  them  at  twelve  years 
old — singing  my  tira-lira  bold — no  matter  where,  afar,  through  life ! 


120      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

XVI. 

"Why  could  I  not  remain  at  home,  a  faithful  child  with  parents  fond? 
why  must  I  strive  to  pass  beyond  the  loving  age  of  Hop-o '-My-Thumb  ? 

He  scattered  pebbles,  to  be  sure,  wishing  his  home  once  more  to  see, 
escaping  from  the  wood  obscure.     'Tis  the  obscure  that  tempted  me. 

The  child  becomes  the  youth,  and  soon  the  youth  is  the  young  man, 
who  is  first  man,  then  slippered  pantaloon.  How,  prithee,  will  you  alter 
this? 

XVII. 

Love?  Bah  I  It  has  so  often  been  born,  in  so  many  lives,  and  then  so 
often  vanished  from  our  ken,  the  heart  has  lost  its  rights  therein. 

"Dear,  precious  pet!  A  prodigy  1  Sweetest  of  babes!  Perfection 
rare  1    Take  but  a  step,  you  're  in  the  snare :  all 's  an  enigma  instantly. ' ' 

Nature's  profound  and  secret  lure,  all  that  my  school-books  did  not 
say,  all  that  remained  to  me  obscure,  combined  to  make  me  run  away. 

XVIII. 

My  stricken  mother  wept  at  home.  My  father  raised  the  garrison.  I 
was  caught  before  three  days  had  passed  and  the  gypsy  chief  in  jail 
was  cast. 

My  drum,  gold,  white,  and  blue  (a  deft  red  clown  its  lore  had  taught 
to  me,  caustic,  compassionate),  was  left  at  the  threshold  of  their  hos- 
telry. 

And  despite  this  flattering  drum,  that  went  rocking  above  my  heart 
content,  in  that  three  days'  sojourn  I  can  say  that  I  sinned  three  hundred 
sins  a  day. 

XIX. 

To  whom  do  I  speak?  To  the  winds  that  pass?  To  the  cows  that 
drink  the  pearly  grass?  Alone  I  tell  it  as  before,  my  shadow  as  sole 
auditor. 


PAUL   FORT  121 

My  ear  between  harsh  fingers  (ah!  more  than  three  hundred  times  a 
day)  home  I  was  haled,  to  my  mamma,  who,  in  her  love,  half -swooning 
lay. 

"College,"  my  father  said,  "and  soon!" — "Hangman!"  my  mother 
cried,  aswoon.  And  I  thought,  my  heart  with  grief  asmother,  my  father 
did  not  love  my  mother. 


XX. 

Dark  seer  o'er  tedium's  woes  that  reigns,  friend  of  the  streams  that 
lash  the  panes,  of  winds  that  autumn's  anger  show,  of  water's  sad  and 
sombre  flow 

o'er  the  highway's  dark  declivities,  where,  like  a  rat,  the  evening  flees, 
how  this  ingrate  heart  was  praised  by  thee,  black  wizard  of  my  destiny. 

Two  months  emprisoned  in  my  room  each  with  the  other  did  com- 
mune. In  vain  you  strove  the  hope  to  tame  of  a  heart  already  made 
for  fame. 


XXI. 

No,  all  thine  arts  could  ne'er  have  tamed  a  heart  for  high  adventure 
framed.  Ennui,  I  drove  thee  forth  to  reign  far  from  the  crystal  win- 
dow-pane 

I  opened  to  the  beaming  sun. — ' '  Still  fresh  I  hold  in  memoiy,  Mother, 
the  day  you  gave  to  me  a  'Childhood  of  Napoleon.'  " 

"Mother,  all  day  its  leaves  I  turned!  against  my  trembling  knees  it 
burned  .  .  .  "What  gift  was  this,  0  Mother  mild?  .  .  .  Till  then  I  was 
a  little  child." 

XXII. 

A  boy  morose,  young  men  among,  knowing  too  well  what  he  would  be, 
he  did  not  play  with  anyone  when  all  Brienne  was  plunged  in  glee 


122      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

but  in  the  playground's  shade  remote  wandered,  with  grave,  sleep- 
walking eyes,  like  the  pale,  muttering  idiot  who  in  the  twilight  prophe- 
sies. 

And  then  at  last  I  understood  why  boyish  games  I  would  forswear, 
seeking,  instead,  the  gloomy  wood  to  prophesy  a  little  there. 


XXIII. 

October — and  the  day  malign  when  I  must  quit  my  prison-cell,  my 
chamber  white,  the  house  as  well,  God!  and  my  birth's  horizon-line. 

I  wept  so  much!  But  all  I  won  from  a  father  worshipped,  none  the 
less,  was  this  walk  through  morning's  loveliness  of  a  mother  and  her 
little  son. 

In  her  hand  she,  too,  wept  bitterly  like  a  child  that's  overwhelmed 
with  sorrow.  *'I  cannot  see  him  go  from  me  today  ...  I  cannot  .  .  . 
Ah!  tomorrow!  ..." 


XXIV. 

The  poplars  of  our  meadows  fair,  bent  to  the  wind  of  heaven,  their 
fate  bemoaning,  seemed  with  mournful  air  to  say:  "Call  us  unfoi'tu- 
nate. ' ' 

The  bleating  she-goat  at  her  stake,  'neath  trailing  clouds  o'er  heaven 
that  streamed,  pulling  upon  her  tether  seemed  to  say:  ''Call  me  unfortu- 
nate, ' ' 

the  clouds:  "Unfortunate  we  are,  we  who  in  tatters  skim  the  sky,"  and 
Mother,  with  her  heart  at  war,  said:  "How  unfortunate  am  I !" 

XXV. 

How  prophet-like  do  I  appear!  Sleet  falls  .  .  .  Farewell  to  sunny 
days  .  .  .  Dreamer  with  no  umbrella  near,  the  collar  of  your  coat  up- 
raise. 


PAUL    FORT  123 

—Though  such  a  rain  as  in  the  Last  Judgment  will  fall  our  forms 
harassed,  I  wept  no  more.  With  courage  hold,  alas!  my  mother  I  con- 
soled. 

Then,  to  the  house  returning  slow,  college  my  fancy  dwelt  upon,  and 
in  the  mingled  rain  and  snow,  I  dreamed  of  young  Napoleon. 


Extracts  from  IN   GATINAIS. 

DEDICATION  TO  THE  LAND. 

Green  Gatinais,  'neath  whose  shade  the  li\'ing  waters  shine,  where 
gleams  the  thunderbolt  in  that  confined  sea,  the  canal  that  Avith  its  stroke 
the  storm  doth  underline,  if  I  have  made  so  bold  as  to  sing  thee,  par- 
don me. 

Not  my  portion  of  the  world?  Thou  becomest  it,  art  it  now.  I  re- 
gard thee,  understand  thy  soul,  and  sing  of  thee.  Let  him  be  who  wills, 
I  am  of  no  one  land,  I  trow.  Since  when  has  Ile-de-France  paid  me  a 
salary  ? 

And  Champagne  and  this  Kemois  of  my  nativity,  where  of  crafty 
Louis  Eleventh  I  have  paraded  long  the  mare,  and  the  ample,  fresh 
expanse  of  Normandy,  have  they  been  more  prodigal  ?  If  you  fancy  so, 
you're  wrong. 

And  the  land  where  I  was  a  sailor,  the  coast  of  Brittany  (gravely  and 
fervently  in  song  I  praised  its  scenes),  the  smallest  obulus  has  never 
voted  me.    All  the  silver  I  saw  there  shone  on  the  sides  of  its  sardines. 

From  Perigord,  in  turn,  what  profit  did  I  draw? — Truffles?  Not  every 
day.  Santonge  and  Angoumois,  (how  fair  they  were,  those  days  of 
France,  0  youthful  I  of  vacations  long  ago)  what  funds  did  they 
supply? 

Turning  to  foreign  lands,  what  has  my  verdict  been?  Stout  Belgium 
— Gallic  blood  its  pulses  doth  attune:  in  truth  I  like  thee  well,  0  stub- 


124      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

born  race  "Walloon — has  not  marketed  my  wares  for  all  its  store  of 
spleen. 

Has  thrifty  Holland  e  'er  tinsewed  for  me  at  all  the  plump  heel  of  her 
sock  with  golden  ecus  full?  From  Italy,  where  I  saw  such  treasures, 
did  I  gain  more  than  the  burning  vow  to  view  them  once  again  1 

And  what  vantage  have  I  gained  from  those  lands  of  faery,  those 
countries  of  a  dream  my  pen  doth  importune? — the  Mountain,  whose 
domain  was  wholly  made  by  me,  Olympus,  Paradise,  ah,  and  the  moon, 

the  moon?  .  .  . 

Tenderly  to  these  lands  I  vowed  my  singer's  art,  their  grace,  austerity, 
or  languor  to  express,  nor  asked  reward,  but  sang  to  guard  the  happi- 
ness wherewith  each  man  well-born  doth  satisfy  his  heart. 

I  hear  this  throbbing  heart,  spiritual  and  pure,  wherein  its  mirrored 
self  all  Nature  doth  adore,  and  that  I  have,  my  friends,  nor  ever  will 
abjure  to  basely  compromise  with  silver  I  abhor. 

Land  of  grasses  and  of  streams,  green  Gatinais,  receive  my  homage. 
Thee  I  sing,  nor  look  for  any  wage,  whereof  the  golden  wave  of  the 
canal,  this  eve,  mirrors  the  moon  that  melts  above  thy  foliage. 

REPOSE  AT  NOON. 

Bee,  that  the  thyme  doth  sing,  how  clear  thy  hum  doth  ring  in  the 
hollow  of  mine  ear ! 

Bee,  down  the  distance  borne,  no  longer  sounds  thy  horn,  thy  song 
I  do  not  hear. 

Three  seconds  ere  the  noon,  life  in  its  course  doth  swoon.  It  is  the  hour 
of  heaven. 

For  the  standing  harvest  even,  the  finch  at  the  rose's  marge,  on  the 
canal,  a  barge. 

For  the  suckling  lamb  as  well :  at  the  white  throat  of  the  ewe  tinkles 
no  more  the  bell. 


PAUL    FORT  125 

Two  seconds  ere  the  noon,  life  in  its  course  doth  swoon.    It  is  the  hour 
of  heaven. 

Bee,  that  yonder  sang,  thy  horn  to  my  ear  no  more  is  borne.     Thy 
song  I  do  not  hear. 

Cat,  padded  paw  in  air,  for  what  are  j^ou  waiting  there  ?    For  a  far- 
off  chiming  clear? 

Dragon-flies  above  the  stream,  the  sunlight's  aureate  dream  you  to  the 
reeds  have  given. 

One  second  ere  the  noon,  life  in  its  course  doth  swoon.    It  is  the  hour 
of  heaven. 

Dew,  dew,  thy  thought  disclose.    It  plunges  to  the  riven  heart  of  a 
thought  morose. 

My  heart,  where  is  the  past?    It  is  the  hour  of  heaven.     Thither  no 
fancies  cast. 

Bee,  down  the  distance  borne,  no  longer  sounds  thy  horn,  thy  song 
I  do  not  hear. 

On  the  belfry's  an  angel  white.     There  a  second  takes  his  flight; 
Ten  others  are  hidden  near. 

At  Nargis  twelve  strokes  resound.     Life  again  resumes  its  round. 
Balms  distill  from  the  lilies  clear. 

Bee,  that  the  thyme  doth  sing,  how  dear  thy  hum  doth  ring  in  the 
hollow  of  mine  ear! 


126  SELECTED   POEMS   AND   BALLADS   OP 

LIVING  AS  A  GOD. 


BIRTH  OF  SPRING. 

Followed  by 

THE  ETERNAL  ADVENTURE  (BOOK  III). 

1912. 


MATINAL  SURVEY  OF  THE  CITY.* 

0  justly  made  divine,  unclose  thy  hands,  sweet  Dawn,  those  fingers 
flushed  with  rose — but  keep  thy  mittens  on:  caress  the  rime  of  morn 
o'er  glittering  roofs.  The  cold  bites?  Ah!  This  instant  born  my  Aurora 
pale  behold. 

No  more  than  it  does  me.  But  I  blow,  my  sweetheart  fair,  on  my 
fingers.  Hot !  hot !  hot ! — What  sovereign  joy  is  there  I  A  tomtit  on  the 
mill  of  the  sleeping  town  doth  sing  as  through  its  streets  I  pass  in  lonely 
wandering. 

Rays  of  the  dawning  day,  freshness  ineffable  of  this  morning,  and  I 
go,  furtive,  to  find  the  key  of  a  city  by  repute  the  happiest  of  all  and 
like  Aurora  blessed  in  its  calm  destiny. 

To  the  tomtit 's  lisping  strain  no  emulous  voice  replies.  Hushed  is  the! 
nightingale.  The  cock  has  sung  his  psalm.  Do  you  plan  to  give  the 
town,  0  God  of  paradise,  served  on  a  silver  tray  to  the  angel  proved 
most  calm? 

There  is  indeed — I  hark — the  murmur  crystalline  of  a  fountain,  two, 
no,  three.  (And  this  one's  silver  sheen  reflects  a  candid  brow,  the  brow 
of  Jean  Racine.)  Of  that  sound  is  this  a  part?  (Do  these  verses  bear 
the  sign 

♦  La  Ferte-Milon. 


PAUL   FORT  127 

of  that  speaker  eloquent  of  falsehoods  most  divine?  "Water  flows,  the 
verses  sing  and  fade,  'tis  all  a  dream.)  O  calm  Ferte-Milon,  naught  has 
your  silence  broken  save  the  tomtit,  and  no  doubt  for  angels  I  have 
spoken. 

Of  the  mill  upon  the  Ourcq  the  parget  white  doth  sway.  A  supple 
bridge  doth  cross  canal  and  rushing  stream  in  two  bounds — but  with  no 
noise — like  those  lithe  tomcats  gray  that  in  silver  gutters  leap,  watched 
by  the  lunar  beam. 

And  truly !  there  remains  above  the  town  displayed  a  slender  crescent 
moon  that  Dawn,  distraught,  doth  crave.  Alas!  she  wounds  her  hands 
against  the  siclde's  blade,  and  sanguine  roses  fall  to  daub  the  golden 
wave. 

The  sparks  that  blue  and  rose  and  gold  and  crimson  burn,  silver  and 
grey,  those  sparks  that  in  this  vei^e  return :  so  sweetly  they  have  come 
within  my  eyes  to  play,  to  sleep  there,  there  to  dream  of  life  that  lasts 
for  aye ! 

Let  us  softly  leap  the  stream  for  all  is  lulled  to  rest.  The  street  of  La 
Chaussee,  the  town's  main  street,  I  find,  like  silent  desert  sands  in  rosy 
whiteness  dressed,  seems  to  have  quite  forgot  the  shadows  of  mankind. 

But  IVe  no  shadow  ...  ah!  'tis  there,  but  light  as  down.  Like  a 
faint  wreath  of  smoke  in  air  my  shadow  flees.  Am  I  nothing  but  a  soul  ? 
— Now,  praise  to  God,  I  sneeze. — A  little  winter  wind  has  swept  across 
the  town. 

Then  'tis  the  swallows'  joy  in  circling  flight  is  spread.  A  creaking 
weathercock  blends  with  their  twittering  cry.  But  in  the  fountain  'tis 
that,  lifting  not  my  head,  there,  close  beside  Racine,  I  love  to  see  the 


Blue  shutters,  roofs  of  slate,  soft  clouds  of  morning  clear,  is  it  by  such 
a  stair  that  one  to  God  may  rise?  Would  you  ascend,  my  soul,  and 
leave  my  body  here  below,  more  drunk  to  grow  wuth  the  rapture  of  my 
eyes? 

Cobblestones  charm  me  first,  most  worthy  of  reno^vn,  there  are  hun- 


128      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

dreds,  one,  two,  three,  ten  thousand  by  my  guess.  All  of  them  I  admire 
(what  sparkling  cleanliness!)  in  climbing  up  the  street  that  dominates 
the  town. 

"Ding!"  The  half  hour?  Magic  spell  a  single  peal  may  bring! 
Of  its  vibration  born  lo,  a  whole  church  uprises.  Eh?  yes,  'tis  Notre- 
Dame  with  tower  all  quivering.  "Ding!  ding!''  'tis  seven  times  thus 
that  the  bell  evangelises, 

and  the  belfry  with  each  chime  soars  loftier,  broadens  vaster,  or  is  it 
I  draw  near  tilting  my  chin  in  air  ? — Dawn !  see  this  Finger  sway  'gainst 
the  horizon  there:  does  it  not  point  for  thee  thy  Maker  and  thy  Master? 

Yes,  thou  canst  see  him,  thou  ...  I,  better  I  observe  the  fifteen  hun- 
dred roofs  of  the  little  town  that  go  down  the  main  street  'neath  my 
eyes,  fine  and  light,  and  far  below  on  the  road  to  Rheims  defile,  making 
a  sudden  curve. 

What  chimneys!  Ah,  Seigneur!  What  vanes  above  the  eaves!  An- 
gels in  rosy  air  what  martial  trumpets  play !  Chimneys,  in  very  sooth, 
warriors  one  well  might  say.  Windows,  no  blossoms  now,  cultivate 
laurel  leaves. 

I  see  the  mill,  its  wheel,  set  where  the  Ourcq  meanders,  its  high  tower, 
bushes,  signs.  Lions  and  Salamanders,  and  Racine,  three  times  Racine, 
half -bare — child — deity  of  olden  times— Ai-e.'  Hail!  Three  times  hail 
to  thee! 

There's  the  Hotel  de  Ville  with  its  French  flag  there  my  inn  o'er 
which  with  eyes  of  green,  my  Savage*   doth  preside,  and  the  other 

ancient  church  below ;  come,  courage  then ! the  hands  of  citizens  push 

all  the  shutters  wide. 

Who  now  doth  over  me  this  sombre  shadow  throw?  Houses  somnam- 
bulant,  who  with  a  bound  awake,  to  your  shutters  *  noise  ascend  by  swift 
assault  to  take  the  hill  all  flower-bedecked,  the  shade  of  the  chateau ! 

You  remain!  .  .  .  Good,  I  alone  shall  go  to  gaze  on  you  from  the 

♦  The  author  during  his  stay  at  La  Ferte-Milon  lived  at  the  Hotel  du  Sauvage, 
the  sign  of  which  is  a  Man-Friday,  black  and  bare  like  a  great  radish. 


PAUL    FORT  120 

height,  then  with  both  hands  applaud  you  frantically,  for,  though  I  know 
not  why,  it  is  most  sweet  to  me,  against  white  walls  the  sound  of  all 
these  shutters  blue! 

THE  SEVEN  HOUSES  OF  JEAN  RACINE. 

Smyrna,  Chios,  ColopJion,  Salamis,  RJiodos,  Argos,  Athenae,  Orhis 
de  patrid  certat,  Homere,  tud. 

Homer  was  born  in  cities  seven.  Seven  houses  saw  thy  birth,  Racine. 
Thus  claim,  devoid  of  reason's  leaven  but  in  the  most  polite  of  styles — 
vantage  from  mighty  names  to  glean — proud  Hellas  with  its  storied  isles 
and  my  Ferte-Milon  serene. 

The  seven  houses  of  Racine  are  not  all  dowered  with  gabled  eaves  save 
for  the  Hotel  Dieu,  no  doubt,  in  rue  Pomparde,  set  close  about  with  huts 
like  onion-patches  mean.  The  rue  Pomparde,  your  scribe  believes,  pom- 
pous in  naught  but  name  has  been. 

But  see  this  house  in  rue  Jules-Girbe,  number  4;  the  hold  inhabited 
by  this  old  buffer  blanched  of  beard  (Racine  "old  grej'beard"  would 
have  said) ,  in  his  courtyard  tinkering  away  at  a  lamp,  though  a  lamp- 
man  proud  in  skill  (and  indeed  I'd  wish  him  artist),  still  a  lamp  won't 
make  the  light  of  day. 

Next  the  house  in  rue  Saint- Vaast  approach.  Like  the  last  'tis  num- 
ber 4,  but  pooh!  Numbers  are  naught  in  such  a  coil.  The  number  4 
I  now  espy,  poor  hut  all  piteous  to  view,  crushed  by  its  roof  so  wretch- 
edly, flat  as  a  roach  doth  pierce  the  soil. 

But  this  gives  no  aid  to  my  affair.  Let  us  quickly  seai'ch  rue  Jean- 
Racine.  Twenty-five?  Where  is  it?  In  the  air?  Seventeen?  Alack 
I'm  in  despair.  They're  not  in  ruins,  but  I  wis,  of  owners  rich  the 
villas  fair  or  profitable  factories. 

So  be  it.  rue  Saint- Vaast  again — at  3 — I  know  a  bas-relief,  cheeks  of 
a  hundred  nuns  to  stain,  thy  grandsire  Sconin  held  in  fief.* — ^Think,  Ra- 
cine, of  what  mischief  'twas  the  sign,  that  thy  dam  to  destinies  divine 
bore  thee  above  that  bas-relief. 

*  It  represents  the  Judgment  of  Paris. 


130      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

In  rue  le  Meau  we  may  conclude  our  quest,  and  21  inspect.  "What 
beasts  superb  with  naught  to  fleck  their  state !  Ox,  ass,  those  neighbours 
good,  beside  a  smoking  dunghill  triced.  But,  though  perhaps  of  his 
elect,  Eacine  could  scarcely  pose  as  Christ. 

Racine  in  seven  houses  saw  the  light  of  day.  (So  Rumour  runs.) 
Since  when  seven  over-reaching  ones,  the  new  possessors  or  the  old, 
have  never  ceased  to  quarrel  and  scold,  or  frantically  invoke  the  law,  to 
prove  the  roof  where  now  they  cling  received  the  Poet  of  the  King ! 

To  think  what  strife  these  owners  wage,  while  thunderous  eyes  pro- 
claim their  hate,  would  drive  one  to  the  cellarage,  forcing  the  Mayor,  in 
times  of  fete,  by  threes  their  numbers  to  engage  ...  or  twos,  but  ne'er, 
forbid  it,  Heaven !  together  all  the  squabbling  seven ! 

No.  But  their  hate  at  last  appeased,  when  channeling  time  had  set 
its  flaw  there,  to  end  their  bickering  they  were  pleased,  each  keeping 
for  his  own  the  author  of  but  a  single  tragedy  of  the  seven  Voltaire 
could  quote  by  rote  from  Andromaque  to  AtJialie. 

These  arrant  thieves,  these  rascals  bold,  when  sightseers  on  the  past 

would  ponder "Milord,  'tis  ours  you  should  behold!" — The  truth  is 

clear  though  errors  swarm.  Now  where 's  the  house  in  which  was  born 
the  author  of  AtJialie — "  'Tis  here!" — that  of  IpJiigenie — **  'Tis  yon- 
der!" 

'Twas  so  for  the  author  of  Ester  and  for  the  scribe  of  Mitliridate,  and 
that  of  PJiedre,  0  rebus  rare!  no  less  for  that  of  Andromaque  and  he 
who  wrote  Bn^awmcws,  "Milord,  you  need  no  omnibus  .  .  .  With  clear- 
cut  date,  see,  there's  the  plaque." 

I  dare  not  think  what  strident  yellings  rose  -vvhen  the  tourist,  silly 
ass!  was  cursory  with  the  seven  dwellings  and  saw  but  two  or  three. 
Alas!  Homeric  taunts  the  vandal  shames  mixed  with  the  fairest  tragic 
names  such  as  Plaideurs  could  scarce  surpass. 

Backers  of  PJiedre  and  of  Ester  must  hoot  derisively  whene'er  from 
the  dwelling  of  IpJiigenie  (I  synthesize)  they  chance  to  see  that  parasite 
on  genius  rare  emerge.  With  erring  club,  alack,  MitJiridate  lays  pros- 
trate Andromaque, 


PAUL   FORT  131 

while  valiantly  Britannicus  ^nth  Atlialie,  no  longer  proud,  joins  in  the! 
internecine  fuss,  urging  each  other,  all  the  crowding  seven  to  the  supreme 
melee  of  bonnets  and  perruques. — But  pray  why  seven?  And  what  of 
Bajazetf 

Let  me  a  moment  scratch  my  ear.  I  swear  I  had  forgotten  clean  that 
brute !  If  La  Ferte  will  hear  my  plan,  I  'd  have  it  straight  begin  choos- 
ing an  eighth  abode  wherein  to  stage  the  birth  of  Jean  Racine. 

A  sudden  thought;  since  here  I  stay  two  days  with  fortunes  most 
forlorn,  might  he  not,  the  scribe  of  Bajazet,  in  my  Hotel  du  Sauvage  be 
born?  In  that  case,  I  wish  (my  shock  immense  stamps  me  a  painter,  so 
they  say)  to  paint  a  plaque,  and  I  commence : 

"Homer  was  born  in  cities  seven.  Eight  houses  claim  thy  birth, 
Racine.  So  drew,  devoid  of  reason's  leaven,  but  versed  in  all  civilities, 
their  profit  from  a  mighty  name,  industrious  and  clever  Greece  and  sly 
Ferte-Milon  serene." 

The  date,  then,  and  the  reason  why  I  think  the  great  tragedian, 
Thomas,  within  thy  house  was  bora,  born  in  thy  house  especially!  .  .  . 
(For  Thomas  is  the  name,  you  know,  of  mine  host  of  the  inn  where  most 
I  go.    Gay,  rosy,  and  rotund  is  he.) 

— When  I  have  made  him  famous  thus,  straightway  in  envy's  gulf  I 
sink.  I  buy  him  out.  'Tis  ruinous.  For  all  my  friends  I  ask  to  drink 
where  Racine  his  birth  would  fain  have  willed,  and  where,  in  straits 
calamitous,  Paul  Fort  soon  dies,  all  pale  and  chilled. 


Envoi. 

For  Attentive  "Wits. 

My  ditty  Berenice  doth  wrong?  A  queen  in  exile  doomed  to  sigh, 
she  has  no  portion  in  my  song.  Hardly — and  yet  perhaps  one  may 
grant  her  a  house  not  far  away  at  Crepy,  that  small  town  nearby,  in 
which  Racine  was  born,  they  say. 


132  SELECTED   POEMS   AND   BALLADS   OF 

NOCTURNAL  CRIME  AT  THE  CHATEAU. 

Is  the  chateau  to  spooks  a  prey,  the  black  chateau  of  La  Ferte?  .  .  . 
Is  this  a  fire  ?  Is  this  the  moon  ?  In  quick  succession  through  the  gloom 
four  windows  blaze  with  fervid  light.  Are  these  the  shaken  torches 
bright  of  ghosts,  that  pace  with  noiseless  feet,  tonight,  where  the  plateau 
is  sweet  with  fragrant  herbs  the  breezes  sway. 

— Ghosts,  I'm  alone.    What  message,  pray? 

To  the  owlet's  hooting  cry  remote,  the  Gothic  window  now  doth  flare; 
to  the  toad's  harsh  croaking,  on  its  note,  appears  the  chapel — who  goes 
there!  ...  to  the  ominous  raven's  cawing  drear,  three  massive  tomb- 
stones upward  rear,  and  where  the  window's  dyes  are  shed,  a  mad- 
dened dance  begin  to  tread.  Is  the  chateau  to  spooks  a  prey,  the  black 
chateau  of  La-Ferte  ? 

— Ghosts,  I'm  alone.     What  message,  pray? 

To  the  whistling  of  a  train  that  nears,  coming  from  Villers-Cotteret, 
rending  his  slab  of  granite  grey,  lo,  Alexandre  Dumas  appears,  to  an- 
other train's  ill-omened  call,  from  where  you  like,  to  me  all's  one,  burst- 
ing another  burial  stone,  starts  forth  the  shade  of  Paul  Feval ;  to  a  harsh 
siren's  deafening  shrieks,  that  shake  the  air  despotically — the  siren  of 
a  steamer — one  distinguishes,  come,  can  you  not  imagine?  in  his  High- 
land breeks,  the  phantom  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  which,  as  if  inadvertently, 
slips  from  the  third  uplifted  stone. 

— Ghosts,  I'm  alone.    What  message,  pray? 

From  Notre-Dame  dread  midnight  tolls.  Three  poignards  gleam  above 
three  souls.  From  the  ruins,  'tis  no  mortal  cry! — Ghosts,  I'm  alone. 
What  message,  pray? — "We  assassinate  Racine!"  reply  the  tones  of 
Scott,  befogged  and  dim  from  ancient  bumperfulls  of  gin,  reply  the 
droning  accents  fine  of  Dumas  savouring  a  vnne,  replies  the  low,  sepul- 
chral call  of  hydrophobic  Paul  Feval,  and,  thunderstruck,  I  flee  away, 
leaving  the  flares  to  sink  and  swoon,  tombs  to  disintegrate  in  sooth, 
allowing  peaceably  the  moon  to  mount  the  manor's  slated  roof.  But 
that  it  was  to  spooks  a  prey,  ill  habited  by  phantoms  three — (some  other 
night  go  there  to  see) — the  black  chateau  of  La  Fcrtel 


PAUL   FORT  133 

THE  VIGIL  OF  THE  POET.* 

Pensive,  from  the  high  esplanade  I  stretch  my  hand,  that  of  a  God, 
toward  the  horizon's  opening  road  in  the  moonlight  'neath  my  eyes  dis- 
played. 

I  cadence  still-expanding  space  and  feel  unclose  the  heaven's  blue 
bowl,  swelling  the  spirit  of  my  race  up  to  the  measure  of  my  soul. 

No.  I'm  alone  on  guard,  and  France  that  sleeps  with  unperturbed 
breath,  beneath  the  moonlight's  flood  immense,  has  all  the  majesty  of 
death. 

I  think  of  gods  that  once  were  proud,  of  all  the  heroes  buried  deep,  of 
how  the  lately-conquered  sleep,  of  France  in  her  funereal  shroud. 

The  god  I  was  has  perished  now.  Humbly  I  kneel  and  pray  for  all. 
Why  does  this  peace  upon  me  fall  and  this  sweet  hand  caress  my  brow  ? 

Genius  of  France,  consoling  Sprite  whose  veil,  transparent  with  the 
light  of  the  month  elect  when  buds  are  rife  and  quickening  seeds  are 
thrilled  with  life, 

shines  with  the  lustrous  hue  of  hope! — and  'neath  the  morning's  new 
romance  a  resurrected  soul  I  ope  to  greet  resuscitated  France! 


CANTILENA  AND  CRY  OF  ADIEU 
ON  THE  HILL  OF  THE  MANOR. 

A  last  song?  Flushing  all  the  sky  Dawn  like  a  rose-bud  doth  un- 
fold. The  city  is  its  flower  of  gold.  0  Spring,  my  flower  full-blo-wn, 
goodbyl  .  .  . 

The  manor's  shade,  that  darkly  grieves,  increases  my  departure's  pain. 
In  that  shade,  how  many  lovely  eves  'neath  the  tiered  bastions  of  the 
plain ! 

♦This  poem  became  the  epigraph  of  POEMS  OF  FRANCE  (Lyric  bulletin  of 
the  war),  published  in  1916. 


134      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

I  must  go.  Fate  holds  me  in  its  clutch.  Is  the  racked  soul  contented 
now?  Farewell,  sweet  hill  with  virgin  brow,  and  you,  chateau  I  loved 
so  much. 

A  fragrant  flower  the  town  appears,  that  I  to  shred  no  longer  dare 
with  my  regard;  Dawn's  sister  fair,  beheld  through  eyes  all  blurred 
with  tears. 

Kose  at  the  heart  of  a  rose,  farewell !  I  dare  not  touch  thee  ,  .  .  How 
could  I,  a  stranger?  My  departure's  bell  chimes  slowly  from  the 
belfry  high. 

— The  manor's  shade,  that  darkly  grieves,  increases  my  departure's 
pain.  In  that  shade,  how  many  lovely  eves  'neath  the  tiered  bastions  of 
the  plain! 

Flowers,  still  more  flowers,  a  fragrant  lawn  enamelling  our  Valois 
lands,  how  I  saw  them  born  beneath  the  dawn  whereto  I  stretched  my 
yearning  hands, 

dreaming  of  grasping,  high  in  air,  a  golden  harvest  fair  to  see,  Crepy, 
Dampleux,  Crouy,  Villers  and  Longpont  with  its  priory, 

or,  'neath  what  names  perfumed  stiU  more,  these  buttercups,  these 
bluets  blue,  Troesnes,  FaveroUe,  Ivors,  Bourg-fontaine,  Ecoute-s'il- 
pleut? 

— The  manor's  shade,  that  darkly  grieves,  increases  my  departure's 
pain.  In  that  shade,  how  many  lovely  eves  'neath  the  tiered  bastions  of 
the  plain! 

Adieu,  dear  country  of  Racine!  Adieu,  fair  land  so  pure  of  line, 
having  at  heart  the  rose  serene  that's  of  Ferte-Milon  the  sign 

whereon  the  double  dews  distill  of  the  azure  Ourcq,  the  blonde  canal, 
where  petit-patapan  there  drinks  his  fill  the  bee  of  the  spruce  and  tidy 
mill. 

Farewell  the  forge,  with  glow  profound,  the  silence  to  the  anvil's 
sound,  and  the  shade,  that  comes  to  sadden  me,  of  this  manor  loved  so 
fervidly. 


PAUL   FORT  135 

— The  manor  with  its  shade  one  leaves,  makes  far  from  light  the  exile 's 
pain.    Adieu  forever,  my  fair  eves  'neath  the  tiered  bastions  of  the  plain  I 

A  last  cry!  Echoing  let  it  glance  from  the  manor  to  the  Spring  di- 
vine: "I'd  be  the  foremost  poet  of  France  if  only  I  could  find  the 
time." 


THE  MEMORY. 

The  more  on  my  fair  voyage  I  dream,  the  more  my  langours  lose  their 
hold,  the  more  I  ponder  that  calm  scene  whose  spell  this  feeble  heart 
consoled, 

the  more  I  fondly  think  thereon,  filled  with  the  fancies  of  my  brain, 
the  more,  at  ease,  I  see  again  manor  and  moon  and  forest  sun ! 

You,  silver  moon,  on  heaven's  fine  thread,  most  faithfully  my  musings 
led,  till  the  sun  rose  for  your  reprieve.    The  past  I  long  to  disbelieve. 

How  fair  the  shadow  when  the  breath  of  the  gale  in  all  its  ominous 
might,  was  by  the  rainbow  put  to  flight.    I  do  not  wish  to  credit  death. 

Hills  pure,  and  made  for  me  complete,  spires,  stream  with  tender 
gesturings,  I  rouse  you  with  the  faith  that  springs  in  hearts  celestial  fire 
doth  heat. 

Is  this  a  swallow's  twittering  clear,  this  sound  that  traverses  my 
room?  .  .  .  What?  The  toad  chants  athwart  the  gloom.  What?  'Tis 
the  rook's  harsh  cry  I  hear  .  .  . 

Apple  and  pear  trees,  flowery  close  that,  shrined  in  verse,  I  fain  would 
hold,  you  snow  even  as  you  snowed  of  old,  at  dawning,  in  the  zephyr 
rose. 

And  you,  my  golden  poplars,  bent  in  winged  files  beneath  the  stress  of 
murmuring  breezes,  you  caress  the  stainless  azure  firmament. 

Am  I  yonder  ?  is  it  here  ?  this  fair,  sweet  country  I  so  much  adore  ?  'Tis 
yonder?    I  am  also  there.    The  problem  troubles  me  no  more. 


136      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

La  Ferte-Milon,  thy  fair  day,  its  vistas  I  in  dreams  would  tread? 
That  would  be  saying  love  is  dead,  while  yet  its  end  is  far  away. 

Manors,  do  you  not  feel  me  near,  still  in  your  ruins'  charmed  des- 
mesne  ?    Already  doth  my  Shade  appear  behind  the  Phantom  of  Racine : 

soundless  they  roam  the  rampart's  height,  'neath  the  same  veil's  up- 
lifted sheen,  o'er  the  esplanade  where  comes  the  night,  where  glides  the 
night  of  stars  serene. 

And  one,  the  greatest  of  the  twain,  to  the  other  one  that  earthward 
bends,  says,  ''  'Neath  the  stars,  lo,  France  descends  toward  the  tiered 
bastions  of  the  plain. ' ' 

*'How  perfect  the  nobility  of  this  Valois  land  in  hushed  expanse! 
Let  us  adore,  my  son."    You  see  two  Phantoms  kneel,  adoring  France, 

0  manor !  Yes,  'tis  he,  I  wis,  'tis  surely  he,  that  Phantom  high ;  how 
he  shines !  his  darker  comrade,  'tis  ...  I  have  already  said,  'tis  I. 

— ^La  Ferte-Milon,  thy  fair  days,  would  I  recall  their  vanished  gleams? 
— ^Forever  aid  me,  memories,  my  life  to  people  with  my  Dreams! 

Grant  that  my  happiness  tomorrow,  as  yesterday,  as  today,  may  roll 
out  of  remembered  dreams  I  borrow  from  this,  my  self-sufficing  soul ! 


Extracts  from  THE   ETERNAL  ADVENTURE. 

BOOK  IIL 

(First  pages.) 

I. 

I  do  not  claim  a  writer's  bays.    A  poet  I,  who  sings  his  lays. — What! 
without  art  my  song  were  vain  ?    Listening  thereto  my  grief  I  tame. 

I  write  the  joy  of  words  to  win,  and  sing  them.    Ah !    I  know  not  why. 
— The  flood  of  little  words,  that  try  to  weep,  instead  to  laugh  begin. 


PAUL   FORT  137 

But  should  misfortune  still  augment,  in  a  cry  my  pen  is  shattered 
quite. — I  do  not  know  when  I  lament  my  sorrow  if  I  sing  or  write, 

II. 

Nothing  on  earth  so  fair  has  been  as  natural  song.  Sweet  lark  on 
high  twittering,  sing  the  azure  sky.     Sing  thou  a  tomb,  0  Lamartine. 

Sing,  owl,  these  nights  in  terror's  sway,  but  thou,  de  Musset,  sing  as 
well.  Sing,  Keats,  sing,  passionate  Philomel,  the  fair  blue  nights  that 
last  for  aye. 

Sing,  nightingales,  your  dolorous  pain,  like  Heinrich  Heine  or  Ver- 
laine,  or  sing,  sing  all  your  ecstacy,  living  or  dead,  alas ! — ^like  me. 

III. 

Let  us  write. — What  say  I  ?  Let  us  sing !  0  hark  to  my  new  voice ! 
Give  heed!  How  pure!  and  such  my  hn-e  indeed  that,  groping,  on  its 
vibrant  string 

my  fingers  like  Blind  Homer's  press,  eyes  dark  to  his  song:  its  music, 
stirred  almost  sans  art,  gives  forth  no  less  such  tunes  as  air  has  never 
heard. 

Therewith  my  merging  voice  doth  sing.  I  list.  How  fair  my  voice's 
swell!  Is  this  the  Summer  or  the  Spring?  Ah,  never  have  I  Efung  so 
well. 

IV. 

That  which  to  Moreas  I  owe  is  something  words  can  never  say.  My 
soul  was  wearied,  dark  \\4th  woe.    Almost  he  made  of  it  the  gay 

sprite  of  cosmic  fires  no  curb  restrains.  *'Make  all  your  words  as 
light  as  air!  Mingle  them  with  these  buoyant  flames  whirling  above 
the  torches'  flare." 

That  which  from  ]\Ioreas  I  learned  was  my  secret.  Not  for  him 
since  he,  living — my  master!  Woe  is  me! — clear  as  today  all  things 
discerned. 


138      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

V. 

"What  did  I  say  just  now?  that  art,  skill  in  words,  a  poet  did  not 
need?  .  .  .  Knowledge  must  not  protrude,  indeed;  one  must  know  all 
things,  but — by  heart, 

after  long  toil.  My  sons,  'tis  true  that  faulty  writing  never  pays.  The 
poet  I  who  sings  his  lays,  being  perhaps  a  writer,  too. 

The  loves  of  night  and  morning,  these  form  all  the  art  of  twilight  fair. 
Knowledge  and  gift,  style  and  sweet  air,  unite  the  two  antipodes. 
•  ••***# 

SONGS  TO  CONSOLE  ME  FOR  BEING  HAPPY 

RICHAED  CCEUR-DE-LION— AT  ANDELYS 

HELENE  TOURANGELLE. 

1913. 

RICHARD  COEUR-DE-LION. 

Pas  n'est  merveUle  si  j'ai  le  ccBur 
dolent,  lorsque  mon  seigneur  met 
ma  terre  au  pillage. 

Richard  Coeur-de-Lion. 


("Written  in  the  ruins  of  the  Chateau-Gaillard  at  Andelys.) 

I. 

Beneath  the  ruddy  plume  of  the  carnation  wild  that  the  ruin  doth 
perfume  in  evenings  of  July,  plunged  in  unfathomed  gloom  to  never  be 
beguiled,  what  did  you  think  of  me  that  evening  green  with  storm, 
thoughts  of  my  heart  astray, — 'neath  the  carnations  wild  o'er  the  don- 
jon-keep that  sway  in  evenings  of  July. 

Towards  the  tempest 's  lowering  mass  I  know  you  reasoned  thus,  that 
I've  a  heart,  alas!  flawed  and  adventurous,  a  heart  that  grumbles,  soon 
turned  silent  utterly,  like  the  tempestuous  sky  o'er  yonder  nodding 


PAUL   FORT  139 

plume;  in  the  air,  beneath  the  flower,  I  know  you  reasoned  thus  that 
I've  a  heart  for  dower,  flawed  and  adventurous, 

like  him,  that  luckless  slave  of  fortunes  varying,  the  evil-starred  and 
brave  Richard,  crusader-king.  To-night  the  tempest's  blur  parts  to  re- 
veal the  moon  at  the  rampart's  verge. — The  croon  of  the  wind  was  my 
Blondel,  'mid  the  flowers,  with  music's  swell,  Fortune  to  importune, 
chateau  of  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion  'neath  the  moon. 

II. 

It  happened  yesterday  where  a  hundred  roses  grow,  intruding  througH 
the  hedge  a  donkey  came  to  bray  precisely  o'er  my  brow,  and  \vith 
petals  rosy-hued  bedecked  me,  as  the  sky  zigzagging  lightnings  flecked, 
that  rent  the  cloud 's  black  edge,  dragging  the  thunder  loud,  so  that,  'mid 
the  roses  fair,  it  happened  yesterday — 

that  never  till  that  time  to  these  ruins  drawing  near  (for  I  climbed  to 
your  chateau,  King  Richard)  did  the  car  of  chance  on  me  bestow  such 
fairy  vistas  gay,  a  music  more  sublime,  so  that  Paul  Fort  you  spied,  0 
white  chateau  Gaillard — who  by  the  lightning  saw  what  happened  yes- 
terday— 

the  donkey's  back  bestride,  to  the  crackling  thunder-peal,  and,  strewed 
with  petalled  rain,  in  either  hand  a  rose,  give  himself,  in  high  disdain 
of  the  bolts  that  rent  the  air,  as  a  new  proprietor  to  the  lonely  castle 
there,  Richard  restored  again,  lyric  but  freed  from  pose — then  from  the 
donkey  slide,  as  yesterday  befell. 

III. 

Thus  for  uncounted  days — sans  donkej''  as  a  rule — I  come  to  chant 
the  praise  of  grim  Chateau  Gaillard,  of  the  silver  Seine  flowing  at  its 
feet,  of  the  donjon  with  its  scar,  inflicted  by  a  king  unused  to  dalhing, 
and,  in  particular,  of  its  blossoms  sweet,  Avhereof  my  art  was  fain,  and  a 
stream  of  silver  cool,  flowing  at  its  feet. 

and  often,  even  when  fierce  tempests  shake  the  trees,  I  sing  the  flow- 
ers, the  Seine,  the  castle,  to  the  breeze  that  afar  my  voice  doth  bear,  and 
laugh  to  feel  the  squall  through  my  hair  unhindered  sweep,  for  I've  no 
hat:  till  all  is  merged  to  form  an  air  that  ne'er  was  heard  till  then, 
the  flowers,  the  donjon-keep,  the  silver  of  the  Seine. 


140      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

'tis  not  up  to  the  sky  that,  inebriate,  I  sing  its  chateaux  of  dream, 
unmortised  reared  on  high,  crumbling  above  my  head,  in  shadows  wan- 
dering, and  o'er  this  ancient  wall  in  ghostly  grandeur  spread,  then  fall- 
ing to  obscure  the  barges  drifting  by  with  dusky  coverture,  and  to 
shroud  the  murmuring  stream  whose  tide  beneath  them  flows. 


IV. 

While  from  each  flowery  spray  before  these  crumbling  walls,  siskin  and 
goldfinch  gay  whistle  their  cheery  calls,  soft-couched  upon  the  ling  of  the 
sands,  I  fain  would  sing  of  ancient  combats  rude.  'Tis  good  to  hear  the 
lays  blithe  birds  are  carolling,  but  better  still  to  sing  the  assaults  of  other 
d&ys. 

Strong  towers  the  foe  besets !  Walls  that  go  crashing  down  enduring 
toil  to  crown!  Tottering  parapets!  And  when  the  battle  hot,  hither 
and  thither  slips,  little  and  great  at  grips  in  the  waters  of  the  moat! 
Leaping  the  barriers  high  of  pointed  stakes  arow  from  either  side  they 
cry :  *  *  At  them !  at  them !  at  them  now ! ' ' 

It  makes  my  heart  rejoice,  even  to  its  depths,  to  dream — ranged  in 
the  open  plain — of  the  haughty  cavaliers ;  it  pleases  me  to  see  pavilions 
dot  the  ground,  to  hear  the  screaming  voice  of  horses  riderless,  as  hosts 
of  knightly  peers  the  battle's  din  prolong:  the  song  within  my  heart  to 
that  sound  is  close  akin. 

V. 

To  dream,  to  sing — ^these  are,  poets,  the  selfsame  thing! — Ah  I  the 
knights  press  on  amain !  I  see  them  in  my  dream.  Towards  the  draw- 
bridge now  they  fly,  straight,  and  with  reeking  spur.  They  are  there! 
The  drawbridge  sly  raises  itself.  They  gain  a  charming  interval  while 
on  their  plumes  doth  fall  a  rain  of  boiling  oil. 

God! — how  the  battle  shout  sonorous  echo  swells!  "God  with  us! 
Mother  of  God!  Well  befall  the  right!" — Pest!  the  pioneers  must  go 
the  chfitcau  to  gird  about  with  storming  towere  of  wood,  balistas,  man- 
gonels, while  from  the  belfry's  height  on  the  moat's  embattled  marge 
hordes  of  cross-bowmen  stout  have  trebled  their  discharge. 


PAUL   FORT  141 

Varlets,  tumble  in  the  moats,  with  unrelenting  toil,  faggots  and  pon- 
derous rocks  and  chunks  of  grassy  soil!  Pass! — Swift  the  mine  pre- 
pare! With  picks  and  axes  smite!  The  perilous  gauntlet  dare  and  set 
the  fuse  alight!  A  tower  is  wrecked  and  blocks  a  moat  with  its  debris. 
Ladders!  .  .  .  the  standard  fair  wrought  with  the  fleur-de-lys ! 

VI. 

My  heart  beats — I  hear  it  pound. — Ye  visions  great,  good-bye !  There 
is  no  other  sound  save  my  heart's  and  a  cricket's  cry,  and  the  yellow 
sun  towards  its  setting  goes. — How  much  my  dream  is  one  with  the  days 
that  near  their  close! — Let  us  rise,  in  t\nlight's  gloom  I  will  botanise 
forsooth,  seeking  the  herb  of  youth,  the  simple  of  the  moon. 

Ah,  do  I  know  what  pain  on  my  poor  heart  doth  weigh  ?  Am  I  think- 
ing of  the  love  who  left  me  yesterday?  .  .  .  The  same  ill  circumstance 
hither  despairing  drove  thee,  Lion-Heart,  full  fain  for  that  Alix  of 
France  whom  thy  father  traitorous  loved  to  insanity:  thy  rising  had 
for  cause  a  father's  felony. 

If  I  could  kill  my  sire  through  disappointment's  rage  in  order  to 
assuage  by  cold  ambition's  quest  my  amorous  disgrace,  0  Cceur-de-Lion 
dire !  and  in  my  rigorous  breast  fraternal  love  efface,  like  you  when  you 
suppressed  the  Court-Mantel,  to  reign — if  I  but  could  and  then,  when 
firm  upon  the  throne,  to  Jerusalem  deliver  Lusignan ! 

VII. 

No,  I'm  doomed  to  love,  in  truth.  My  passion  I  must  trail  to  weep 
against  a  stone,  here,  in  this  place  apart  where  I  inscribe  her  name  be- 
tween a  rock-rose  bloom  and  a  pink  the  hue  of  a  heart. — My  senses  fail, 
benumbed! — I  go  to  botanise  in  moonlight's  shimmering  gloss  seeking 
beneath  the  moss  the  herb  of  deathless  youth. 

Alas!  This  frustrate  love,  must  it  for  aye  endure?  I  needs  must 
wait  for  day  to  sing  the  donjon-keep,  the  towers,  the  clouds  above,  the 
river's  silver  deep,  and  the  shocks  of  ancient  war.  Alas,  a  lover's  woes 
must  they  forever  cling?  The  morning's  crimson  rose  alone  can  make 
me  sing. 

No  sound  the  night  discloses.  A  single  ghost  doth  move  still  at  my 
side  to  brood :  the  image  of  my  love.    Her  floating  veil  I  see  that  drifts 


142      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

an  ell  behind.  'Tis  but  a  gleaming  ray  from  the  rising  moon  inclined. 
In  this  calm  solitude  shall  I  awaken,  pray,  couched  in  the  heart  of  the 
roses,  the  gardener's  donkey  grey? 

VIII. 

But  in  morning's  roseate  glow  what  thing  do  I  forget?  'Mid  the 
blossom-sweetened  air,  I  forget  my  amorous  pain.  And  I  sing,  and  sing 
again,  the  Seine  •with  silver  set  and  its  isles  and  its  strong  chateau.  "A 
tower  is  wrecked  and  blocks  a  moat  with  its  debris.  Ladders! — the 
standard  fair,  wrought  with  the  fleur-de-lys!" 

Richard  with  one  black  arm  has  seized  the  standard  now.  On  the 
lilies  shall  be  laid  thy  blushing  cheeks,  Alix,  Flower  of  France,  when 
the  King  implants  a  kiss  on  thy  charming  brow. — May  this  little  ^vinged 
song,  with  form  indefinite,  in  the  selfsame  guise  have  power  to  my  false 
love  to  fare;  although,  in  truth,  'twas  made  that  she  might  slumber 
there. 

Three  verses  shouted  high  are  by  Bertrand  de  Born.  The  others  are 
by  me:  few  merits  these  adorn.  Would  you  have  one's  judgment  cold 
when  love  has  said  good-bye?  Is  a  broken  heart  the  sphere  of  subtle 
reasoning?  Did  you  do  better  here,  Coeur-de-Lion  bold,  Richard,  0  my 
King?    If  80 — 0  troubadour — my  inspiration  be 

since  in  your  chateau  all  the  world  abandons  me. 


Extracts   from    IN    ANDELYS. 

PRAYER 

TO  THE  GREAT  NORMAN  WATER-SPRITES 

TO  OBTAIN  FROM  THEM 

A  FAVORABLE  RECEPTION. 

Great  spirits  of  the  Seine,  in  clear  light  flowing  on,  pliantly  mirror- 
ing Andelys  and  Rouen, 

of  the  Seine  where  apples  rare  their  reddening  globes  may  scan  and 
Bouilhet  and  Flaubert  and  Corneille  and  Poussin, 

welcome  without  a  sneer  my  country  mien.    I'm  one,  like  you,  not 
overprone  to  guzzling  ale  and  beer. 


PAUL   FORT  143 

Do  my  friends  in  Bacchic  glee — La  Fontaine  and  Racine — drink 
naught  but  Castaly  and  naught  but  Hippocrene? 

no,  red  wine!  A  drop  I  toss  of  water  of  Jouvence  into  my  cup  that 
froths  to  honour  all  of  France, 

and  now  in  fellowship,  if  spoken  it  must  be,  is  frothing  at  my  lip  to 
toast  your  Normandy. 

One  drop  of  the  water  of  youth  and  I  rise,  to  shout  afar,  boldly,  the 
praise,  in  sooth,  of  old  Chateau  Gaillard, 

of  its  cliffs,  of  the  forests  blue  of  that  fair  isle  Contant,  of  the  lovely 
Ile-de-Grace  and  of  Vexin  Normand 

and,  indeed,  at  day's  decline  of  a  shower  of  raindrops  fine  which,  my 
distant  loves,  begets  a  host  of  sweet  regrets. 

Great  sprites  with  names  divine,  permit  then  that  Jouvence — sole 
potable  fount  of  France — be  wedded  to  my  wine. 

This  stirs  the  heart,  it  is  a  philtre,  truth  to  tell.  You  recognise  it 
well,  doers  of  prodigies ! 

A  drop  at  least,  forsooth,  add  to  your  cider's  brew:  that  your  work 
may  keep  its  youth  and  grow  in  merit,  too. 

Quaff  cider  and  champagne  'mid  the  green  rushes  fair  of  the  brook- 
side,  0  Corneille,  0  Bouilhet,  0  Flaubert. 

gold-wreathed !  though  Nicholas  *  portrays  us  at  our  ease  before  a 
Roman  arch,  beneath  French  apple-trees. 

V. 

ON  THE  BANK  OF  THE  SEINE. 

A  heaven  confused  pours  forth  these  feeble  twilight  glows.  Fairer 
than  clearest  sky  the  fleecy  clouds  appear;  this  eve  the  glimmering  sun 
like  suavest  moonlight  shows,  and  Earth's  conglomerate  sweet  is  wholly 
gathered  here. 

♦  Nicholas  Poussin. 


144      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

The  breeze,  that  softer  grows  in  evening  vapours  cold,  with  calm 
and  tender  love  upon  the  reeds  doth  weigh.  The  cloud,  agape  for 
dreams,  allows  one  to  behold  that  planet  which  itself  forgets,  forgets  the 
day. 

I  tread  a  river's  brim  whence,  as  in  dream,  I  see  the  image  of  the 
sun,  whose  halo,  silver-lit,  swims  through  the  rushes  green  and  slowly 
foUow^s  me,  while  murmurous  clouds  of  gnats  are  dancing  over  it. 

Farewell,  sun,  too  prone  to  dream  in  the  river's  dark  abyss. — From 
nenuphars  arise  these  hues  of  gold  and  milk  diffusing  furtive  gleams 
like  undulating  silk.  Of  flowers  that  drown  themselves  how  brief  the 
splendour  is! 

Restored,  with  fall  of  night,  to  the  shapes  in  motion  there,  the  far 
shore,  vaporous  sea,  your  billows  have  immersed.  Pursuing  banks  of 
fog  across  the  river  fare.  Of  the  bridge  I  only  see  a  single  span,  the 
first. 

Soul  astray,  shall  I  go  to  dream,  'mid  mists  profound  and  wan,  of  a 
bridge  to  guide  my  steps  to  Heaven's  resplendent  height,  or  of  the 
Stream  that  falls  into  eternal  Night?  What  dreaming,  still  to  dream  if 
all  the  world  is  gone ! 

Poesy,  poesy,  when  sleep  the  world  assails  and  there  is  no  more  moon 
and  there  are  no  more  stars,  you  watch  my  soul  that  glides,  ample, 
bereft  of  veils,  a  river  slow  that  lulls  great,  golden  nenuphars. 

X. 

PROSE. 
TO  THE  MOST  BEAUTIFUL  LIGHT. 

Fair  evening  longed  for  birth,  the  firmament  was  pure.  Life  and  the 
light  of  day  were  softly-tinted  blue,  the  distant  trees  were  blue  and  in 
the  heavens  remote,  wandered  a  little  moon,  white  as  a  dreaming  soul. 

It  is  by  such  a  light  that  I  have  seen  thee  thrice — 0  Fay — before  I 
lived,  in  life,  and  in  a  dream,  in  holy  Paradise,  at  five,  and  at  thirteen. 

It  is  by  such  a  light  in  the  bed-room  of  vacations  the  slumbering  chil- 
dren dream  of  sheep  with  white  and  curly  wool. 


PAUL   FORT  145 

It  is  by  such  a  light  that  young  girls  play  the  piano  beside  great,  open 
windows,  dreaming  of  the  young  girls  of  yesterday. 

It  is  by  such  a  light  that  the  eglantine 's  athrill  .  .  .  dream  of  rambler- 
roses  twining  ancient  walls  and  the  hens  of  the  cock  of  the  church,  grey 
heads  beneath  their  "vvings. 

It  is  hy  such  a  light  that  little  rabbits  close  their  rounded  eyes,  thinking 
of  small,  pink  carrots. 

It  is  by  lights  like  these,  it  is  by  such  a  light,  that  all  that  is  sweet 
takes  place  in  the  thoughts  of  children,  of  animals  and  of  flowei-s. 

It  is  by  such  a  light  that  I  have  seen  thee  thrice — 0  Fay — before  I 
lived,  in  life,  and  in  a  dream,  in  holy  Paradise,  at  five,  and  at  thirteen. 

Fair  evening  longed  for  birth.  The  firmament  was  pure.  Life  and 
the  light  of  day  were  softly-tinted  blue,  the  distant  trees  were  blue  and 
very  high  in  heaven  wandered  a  fine,  clear  moon,  white  as  a  dreaming 
soul. 

XVI. 

HAVE  I  LEISURE 
TO  DEVOTE  MYSELF  TO  POESY? 

To  see  and  know  absorbs  the  whole  of  life's  domain.  Have  I  leisure 
to  devote  myself  to  poesy?  Such  reams  of  history !  Bonaparte!  Charle- 
magne! Here  the  Prussians,  over  there  Louis  Second,  the  Stammerer. 
In  all  things  am  I  versed,  or  rather  wish  to  be,  hoping,  with  studious 
care,  a  point  at  last  to  reach  where  I  shall  not  confound  the  oak-tree 
with  the  beech,  noting  the  salient  marks  of  bark  and  leaf.  To  me  the 
briar  is  colocjTith,  the  leek  ambrosia  fair.  Have  I  leisure  to  devote  my- 
self to  poesy?  And  to  see!  I  dote  upon  it  to  frenzy.  None  has  got 
a  better  eye  to  scan,  as  it  is  and  as  it's  not,  this  infinite  universe.  My 
visions  swarm.  I  love  to  focus  them,  despite  those  gypsy  ones  that 
rove  .  ,  .  the  flight  of  a  hill  beneath  the  panic  of  a  hare ;  great  banks  of 
floating  clouds  uniting  Dream  to  Dream,  the  pomp  of  barges  slow,  in 
evening's  purple  gleam,  heaven's  blue  that's  laughing  there  in  the 
blue  of  the  washing-place,   the   images   of  Kings   on  tavern  biUs-of- 


146      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

fare,  or  this  sluggish,  dead  canal  with  its  eternal  brink,  and  the  forgotten 
drink  beneath  the  arbour  chill,  near  the  crochet-hook — my  heart! — 
and  beside  the  salad  dish,  and  my  sweetheart  plucking  there,  with  a 
resigned  ennui,  this  thin  cock  (ah!  to  strip  the  daisies  white  that  way) : 
I  see  her  eyes  ashine  with  tear-drops  in  the  night,  as  for  me,  I  scale  a 
fish  above  the  kitten  grey.  .  .  .  Our  lamp  lights  up,  is  this  the  effect  of 
chance?  .  .  .  afar,  with  a  sad  and  poignant  strain  the  air  of  heaven  is 
rife  .  .  .  the  Great  Bear  is  the  hai*p  of  the  Chateau  Gaillard.  .  .  .  Have 
I  leisure  to  devote  myself  to  poesy  ?  The  wish  to  see  and  know  will  have 
laid  waste  my  life. 


XXII. 

LONG  LIVE 
THE  SKIES  OF  NORMANDY. 

Let  us  sing,  to  end  our  lay,  Normandy's  azure  skies,  fairest  the  King- 
dom knows,  or  the  Republic  rather,  so  well  contrived  to  cover  both  hell 
and  paradise,  comprised  of  coal,  of  blue,  and  of  seraphic  grey. 

In  missals  I  have  conned  such  heavens  have  smiled  on  me,  arching 
above  the  broils  of  angels  and  of  fiends,  in  the  world's  primal  days,  or 
flashing  from  the  high  cathedral's  jewelled  panes  in  legends  of  Marie, 
Clotilde,  or  Radegonde. 

To  abase  the  dragon  proud,  Saint  Michael  plunges  thence.  There  the 
mild  virgin  sways  a  Christ,  on  slender  knees.  Skies,  ever  dappled  o'er, 
where,  black,  the  Demon  plays  on  the  checker-board  of  cloud  all  the 
good  saints  of  France 

'gainst  God,  who,  as  his  use  is,  betting  his  trusting  flocks  on  the 
virtues  of  his  saints,  above  the  harvests,  loses!  And  fierce  the  thunder 
shocks,  wind  howls,  and  lightning  rends.  The  hail,  in  Normandy,  intimi- 
dates the  fowls. 

Skies,  to  exorcise  the  soul  of  which  I'm  the  hydra  dread,  from  your 
pious  reservoirs  pour  holy  water  down,  or,  better,  if  you  fear  some  hole 
would  hide  my  form,  skies,  great  skies,  dappled  o'er,  rain  eider  on  my 
head! 


PAUL   FORT  147 

Extracts   from   LAMENTS   AND   SAYINGS. 

I. 

CHIME  AT  DAWN. 

This  little  chime  they  play,  matinal,  wandering,  revives  thy  vanished 
Spring,  my  heart,  at  break  of  day. 

This  little  chime  they  play,  at  the  fresh  heart  of  day,  light,  near  and 
far  away,  has  changed  my  destiny. 

What !    Since  this  hour,  shall  I  survive  while  joys  depart,  faint,  chim- 
ing melody  that  thus  renews  my  heart? 

So  far,  monotonous,  and  lost,  so  wholly  lost,  O  little  wandering  air  to 
heaven's  fresh  heart  uptossed, 

you  depart,  return,  chime  on,  like  love  you  rove  and  stray,  you  tremble 
on  my  heart  in  the  clear  dawn  of  da3^ 

What!    Could  one's  life  be  thus,  rural,  monotonous,  sweet  even  as  is, 
nearby,  this  little  melody? 

sweet,  simple,  far  away,  as  it  afar  is  borne,  this  little,  trembling  air 
at  the  fresh  heart  of  mom? 


From  IF  PEAU  D'ANE   WERE   TOLD   TO   ME. 
TALES  FOR  JACQUES  BONHOilME. 
1916. 


SAINT  HUBERT  OF  GAIMBAISEUIL. 

Of  school  I'd  need  an  overplus,  more  lore  than  is  assumed  ad  lib  by  a 
writer  ranked  as  frivolous,  more  style  to  grace  my  goose-quill 's  nib,  and 
many  other  things,  my  love  ( genius  would  not  be  least  thereof  j ,  to  tell 
the  marvels  I  descried  in  a  church  of  this  fair  countryside. 


148      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

A  dmrcli?  And  which,  my  poet,  pray?  They're  thick  as  mount- 
ing larks  in  May.  'Tis  that  of  Gambaseuil  I  mean  which  every  day  at- 
tracts the  eye  with  its  belfry  leaning  all  awry,  whose  bell  clangs  dull  as 
kitchen  pot.  (I  speak  no  wicked  word,  God  wot.)  I'd  need  more  school 
undoubtedly. 

But  I  will  try,  though  I  suppose  I  loom  not  large  in  poesy.  The 
Muses  nine  they  flout  at  me,  and  proud  Polymnia  thumbs  her  nose.  'Tis 
patent  that  the  pen  I  need  justice  to  such  a  theme  to  do  is  your  zealous 
reed.  Saint  Chrysostom,  or  the  stylus  of  Bertrand  de  Born,  et  cetera, 
turlutu. 

Babbler,  your  lay  is  overdue !  I  '11  try  with  Homer  to  compare,  with 
Virgil  and  Madame  Tastu,  Lord  Byron  and  my  god,  Voltaire.  Ye 
Muses  hither  hie  amain !  Briskly  now !  Pass  the  elegie,  the  satire  and 
the  epopee  that  I  may  sing  in  every  strain. 

Reluctant,  through  the  dawning  day  I  went,  love,  having  left  your 
side  (A  bed's  worth  naught  in  summertide.  He's  an  arrant  knave  who 
says  me  nay)  and,  to  descend,  descended  gay,  humming  an  air  for  hum- 
ming's  sake,  of  Gambaseuil  the  narrow  way,  by  naught  constrained  this 
course  to  take. 

The  wood,  not  yet  from  dreams  withdrawn,  having  heard,  'neath 
evening's  dusky  veils,  the  passion  of  the  nightingales,  lay  silent  in  the 
glimmering  dawn.  A  dung-hill  rooster  sang  afar  the  death  of  a  belated 
star.    I  felt  myself  still  more  alone  as  down  the  slope  I  journeyed  on. 

Spreading  their  rose-flushed  summits  high,  with  filtered  dew  the  pine- 
trees  wet  path,  bushes,  and  the  spider  sly,  in  the  centre  of  her  crys- 
talled net.  Suddenly,  in  the  plains  beneath,  turned  towards  our  forests 
and  the  dawn,  the  hunters  blew  their  echoing  horn  in  a  view-halloo  that 
taxed  the  breath. 

'Mid  the  murmurings  of  myriad  bees,  the  songs  of  horns  more  far  away 
with  swelling  clamour  wound  their  way  into  my  ears'  interstices.  The 
birds,  all  wakened  with  a  will,  shook  dulcet  pearls  from  eveiy  bough, 
and  pray  who  now  would  go  and  bid  the  blackbirds'  empire  to  be  still. 

And  the  cuckoos  and  the  finches,  too!  The  feathered  host,  from  jay 
to  lark,  who  chant  and  cheep  the  woodland  through  and  tap  light  beaks 
against  the  bark!    I,  with  no  wings  to  soar  from  earth,  sang  too,  towards 


PAUL   FORT  149 

where  the  morning  stirred,  feeling  myself  become  a  bird  amid  the  uni- 
versal mirth. 

* '  Paul  Fort  of  France,  awake  to  glory !  The  promised  day  has  dawned 
at  last,  and  poesy's  bright  standard  hoary,  uplifted,  floats  on  freedom's 
blast."  I  saw  through  glinting  forests  green,  heroic  Vendees  traversing, 
our  buoyant  Gallic  songsters  bring  the  lyrics  of  the  new  regime. 

By  a  gully's  shelving  slope  betrayed,  head  over  heels  I  rolled  amain, 
arriving,  without  any  pain,  at  the  border  of  a  woodland  glade,  and 
there  my  startled  glances  met  ...  (I  give  you  guesses  three,  my  dear) 
...  a  cure  making  his  toilette  beside  a  royal  musketeer. 

In  the  waters  of  a  dreamy  brook,  to  wash  his  fingera'  unctuous  skeins, 
besmeared  and  streaked  with  vivid  stains,  most  ardently  he  undertook. 
A  rare  old  man !  Methought  he  bowed  finny  parishioners  to  bless.  From 
venerable  phalanges  the  iridescent  bubbles  flowed. 

Not  far  off  on  the  sward,  delighted  with  such  fair  presents  to  be 
strewed,  a  canvas  and  an  easel  stood  a  palette  and  two  lanterns,  lighted. 
His  buttocks  deep  in  tufted  fern,  (think  not  'tis  my  imagination),  tug- 
ging his  boots  off,  D  'Artagnan  damned  with  black  curses  all  creation. 

"Florent,  your  words  should  be  deleted,  weeded  and  tended  like  j'-our 
flowers,"  scolded  the  priest.  "Our  task  completed  we'll  take  this  hunts- 
man saint  of  ours  and  hang  him  by  Our  Saviour's  side.  How  my  flock, 
amazed  that  sight  to  see,  their  eyes  and  mouths  will  open  wide.  'Tis 
my  masterpiece,  apparently. ' ' 

I  sneezed,  when,  swift  as  any  breeze,  the  cure  and  the  musketeer,  one 
seizing  the  accessories,  his  boots  the  other,  disappear  leaving  the  lanterns 
twain  alone.  I  snuffed  them  'neath  the  pallid  dawn.  Even  when  fairj^- 
tales  befall  one  should  be  economical. 

Full  day  beneath  the  forest's  tent,  bathing  each  leaf  in  burnished 
gold,  routed  all  mystery.  On  I  went,  when  what  strange  sight  should  I 
behold  that  petrified  me  in  mid  course!  (Three  guesses?  Come,  take 
six  instead.)  A  baby's  wooden  hobby-horse  by  a  giant  stag  of  ginger- 
bread. 

We  are  not  on  earth  to  fathom  all,  and  naught  our  souls  will  know,  they 


150      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Bay,  when  dawns  that  final,  fatal  day  and  Heaven 's  consuming  thunders 
fall.  This  Raphael  of  a  later  age,  plucked  from  a  fable's  flowered  page, 
this  guardsman  in  full  panoply,  whence  came  they?  Fallen  from,  the 
sky? 

For  a  mystic  whom  my  humour  suits,  'tis  hard  a  halo  to  accord  to 
easel,  lantern,  colour-board,  those  folio  tail-piece  attributes  1  What  would 
you  say  if,  in  the  wood,  your  path  to  such  a  tableau  led?  A  stallion 
from  the  nursery  stud  by  a  giant  stag  of  gingerbread! 

Naught  surely.  So  I  spoke  no  word.  Silently  through  the  wood  I 
strode  and  quickly  came  upon  a  road  where  never  a  hare-brained  rascal 
stirred.  I  trudged  it,  thinking  I  might  seek  (because  it  ran  beside  a 
bog)  my  curiosity  to  wreak  on  the  customs  of  the  azure  frog.* 

I  did  not  see  it.  I  accuse  my  little  luck  or  froggie's  ruse.  Yet  in  those 
fair  regions  all  is  fair.  Charming  the  daybreak's  vaporous  air,  the  trees 
uplifted  fragrant  crests,  lovely,  beneath  the  lucent  morn,  as,  in  crea- 
tion's genesis,  their  forebears  on  the  instant  born. 

For  harmony  the  stage  was  set,  the  bravest,  the  most  lyrical!  No 
savage  heart  have  I,  and  yet  to  Nimrod  is  my  soul  in  thrall.  Then 
judge  what  happiness  I  knew,  what  singing  blood  my  heart  o'ei*flowed, 
when  the  hunt  came  streaming  down  the  road,  prepared  to  sound  the 
death-halloo. 

No,  the  beast,  the  royal  quarry,  swerves.  Farewell  the  chase!  Day 
will  have  faded,  if  well  my  hunting  knowledge  serves,  ere  the  death.  His 
crest  was  scarcely  jaded.  The  dogs  lose  hope.  But,  far  away,  with  all 
my  nerves  I  follow  him.  Upon  his  branching  horns  I  skim.  "Fly  by 
the  road  of  Rambouillet ! " 

Red  jackets  sweep  across  the  glade.  Their  alternation  with  the  pines' 
green  shafts  is  like  a  fusillade.  They  are  gone,  the  stag  with  spreading 
tines,  hunters  and  dogs.  'Tis  still  as  death.  One  holds  a  trembling 
marguerite.  Adieu,  0  chase  that  flies  so  fleet !  One  is  sad  at  the  border 
of  a  path. 

And  as  the  gentle  tear-drops  fall  a  cuckoo  mocks  you  with  his  call. 

*It  is  the  land  of  azure  frogs  (Pierre  belong).  They  are  found  only  here  and 
in  Russia. 


PAUL   FORT  151 

The  fantasy's  reawakening,  to  the  odour  exquisite  is  due  of  trodden  moss, 
that  maddens  you.  One  lives  again,  in  wistful  wise,  the  ardours  of  a 
vanished  spring,  and  sees  the  golden  hair  of  Lise. 

Love,  be  not  vexed,  although  I  know  this  affinity  of  sight  and  scent 
can  be  but  half  a  compliment!  Your  body  breathes  the  soul  of  roses. 
But  earth's  fresh,  virginal  redolence  or  the  smell  of  moss  in  the  forest, 
these  bring  back  one's  early  innocence.    I  fear  the  scent  of  cypresses. 

And,  a  propos,  my  love,  my  flower,  most  sensitive  of  hearts  that  thrill, 
do  you  know  how  odours  have  the  power  to  summon  distant  things  at 
will?  Objects,  and  beings  dead  and  gone,  friends,  kinsmen,  cats  and 
doggies  dear.  Aye,  scents  can  even  make  appear  persons  that  one  has 
never  known. 

The  smell  of  oaks  has  Charlemagne.  Jeanne  d'Arc  from  the  elder- 
flower  doth  start.  Which  of  our  hunting  Louis  but  smells  of  partridge? 
The  Pompadour's  perfume  is  vervain.  But  if  eau  de  Cologne  and  snuff 
conjointly  across  my  ravished  senses  come  sure  as  the  deuce  (foul  fiend, 
aroint  thee ! )  I  see  the  first  Napoleon. 

From  Mandreuse  to  where  Germania  rests,  and  from  Gambais  to 
Etang  Neuf,  I  heard  the  jargonning  of  nests,  ogled  the  blue-embrasured 
roof  where,  ending  every  avenue,  idyllic  Edens  laugh.  But  soon  a  rifted 
bell,  with  the  jangling  tune  of  its  cracked  heart,  beat  the  hour.  'Twas 
noon. 

0  bells  of  marriage,  bells  of  death,  and  bells  of  birth,  for  all  yonr 
might,  you  yield,  with  no  dissenting  breath,  before  the  bell  of  appetite. 
But  at  that  moment  where  was  I ?  Li  Paris?  In  the  Bois  du  Boulogne? 
In  some  far  corner  of  the  sky  ?    An  azure  placard  made  it  kno^vn. 

1  sniffed  (with  no  trace  of  pride  be  it  spoke.  True,  I  had  rested  fre» 
quently.)  Gambaseuil's  pungent  chimney-smoke,  my  goal  precise  .  .  . 
Geography  and  strateg^^,  like  Bonaparte,  to  weary  out,  one  needs  the  aid 
of  that  convenient  little  chart  in  his  umbrella's  depths  displayed. 

Where  the  first  village  huts  were  set,  that  brusquely  on  my  vision 
broke,  making  a  great  to-do,  I  met  a  clustered  throng  of  happy  folk, 
girls,  peasants  in  their  portly  prime,  babes,  scrawny  spouses.  All  took 
part  (I  give  you  guesses  twelve  this  time,  my  love.) — in  criticising  art. 


152      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Oh,  sight  benign !  The  village  hums  with  frank  and  unaffected  stric- 
ture (while  churchward  point  a  score  of  thumbs) : — ''Saint  Hubert! 
What  a  charming  picture ! ' ' — ' '  The  toads !  "What  mummery !  An  abb^ 
painting  his  gardener.  0  I  say!" — '*  'Tis  a  treasure  for  our  church  to 
hold.    Rothschild  would  cover  it  with  gold." 

"Ah,"  one  declared,  to  his  nose  applying  a  finger  trembling  with 
finesse,  "last  year's  Jeanne  d'Arc,  there's  no  denying,  good  gossips, 
showed  more  suppleness,  contours  more  pleasing  to  the  eye." — "Oho!" 
they  laughed,  "A  satyr!  Fie!"  The  school-girls  choired,  in  their  pre- 
cisest  of  tones,  "Saint  Hubert's  far  the  nicest!" 

I  passed  them  by.  The  church  was  there,  small  and  sweet  behind  its 
hedge  retired,  blest  belfry  cleaving  quiet  air,  sill  by  a  cackling  goose 
admired.  White  geese  and  tombs,  what  candours  chaste  against  the 
grave-yard's  sombre  smudge!  With  paunch  compressed,  with  swelling 
breast,  with  eyes  alert,  I  went  to  judge. 

Preceded  by  a  single  bee,  swiftly  I  entered,  and  at  once  the  marvel 
that  at  morn  the  dawn's  dark  mists  had  hidden  from  my  eyes  arises, 
flames  before  them,  cries  across  the  chapel's  narrow  vault:  "Sir  What's- 
your-name,  attention!    Halt!" — hung  to  the  left  of  the  sacristy. 

Struck  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart  by  the  smell  of  pigments  just  ap- 
plied, I  sniffed  the  colours,  scarcely  dried,  of  that  masterpiece  of  candid 
art.  Yes,  'twas  Saint  Hubert  as  my  whim  in  waking  dreams  imagined 
him,  a  guardsman  of  the  king's  in  green,  blue,  red,  with  nose  of 
aubergine, 

laced  boots  that  shame  the  raven's  hues,  and  purple  breeches  that 
o'erflow  their  tops  in  waves  of  indigo,  blue  of  the  Turco,  blue  of  blues, 
loose  hunter's  blouse,  a  belt  of  leather  in  athlete-fashion  doth  confine; 
at  throat  and  wrists  bleached  muslin  fine,  a  green  felt  hat,  a  falcon's 
feather. 

' '  There  is  a  canvas  that's  sincere !  Painting  that  shows  a  poet 's  fire ! ' ' 
I  murmured  in  my  ego's  ear,  and,  what  I  even  more  admire,  no  envious 
shadows  interfere  to  filch,  as  with  a  sneak-thief's  hand,  one  half  the 
contours  nobly-planned  that  dower  my  kneeling  musketeer. 

But  I  forget:  a  flowing  mane,  like  mine,  of  dusky  locks  that  lie 


PAUL   FORT  153 

straighter  than  drumsticks,  mine  the  eye,  black,  made  for  love,  I  well 
maintain,  Adam's  apple,  fruit  of  gullet  long — 'tis  I,  but  greater! — no, 
I'm  wrong;  Heaven  ne'er  vouchsafed  that  I  should  ride  a  cabbage- 
cutter  at  my  side. 

Besides,  I'm  clothed  in  black  (my  hoary  regrets  befitting),  but  observe 
how  this  Saint  Hubert  in  his  glory  seems,  though  transported,  full  of 
verve,  so  gaily  his  blue  arms  are  spread  towards  that  stag-of-ten  that 
stands  so  straight,  sculptured  in  spicy  gingerbread,  rigid  as  Justice, 
firm  as  Fate. 

He  has  cause,  poor  beast !  He  knows  the  dread  encumbrance  that  his 
brow  adorns,  the  weight  he  carries  on  his  head!  Does  there  not  die 
between  his  horns — wide  homs  that  like  a  lyre  do  seem — a  mighty  Christ 
in  flesh  and  blood,  higher  than  shepherd's  crook,  a  God  a  thousand  em- 
pires to  redeem? 

As  proud  as  life,  a  pleasing  sight,  the  sturdy  charger  made  of  wood, 
behind  and  somewhat  to  the  right,  close  to  the  royal  guardsman  stood. 
His  dwarfish  stature  to  enhance,  an  ardent  breath  his  nostrils  blew.  Ah, 
in  your  battles,  Kings  of  France,  how  many  steeds  have  died  for  you ! 

But  the  eye  is  good,  and  fine  the  coat,  as  black  as  ink  save  at  the  feet, 
more  white  than  is  the  snowj^  stoat,  the  mane  and  tail  are  disparate ;  one 
fire-red,  t  'other  water-blue.  Girt,  coquettishlj'-,  between  the  two,  the  sad- 
dle is  that  Turco  blue  already  praised  anent  Saint  Hubert. 

And  all  this,  stag,  steed,  musketeer,  the  great,  pale  god,  the  forest 
screen,  bathed  in  a  heavenly  ray  serene  like  a  baptismal  billow  clear. 
Stalactite-like,  through  leafy  mazes,  the  tale's  protagonists  between,  it 
sifts  from  rifts  of  tender  green,  and  gilds  a  greensward  filled  with 
daisies. 

And  all  this  forms  so  sweet  a  scene,  so  fresh  and  candid  it  appears, 
and  for  the  soul  so  sovereign,  you  fain  would  weep  with  happy  tears, 
before  this  hymn  of  colour  true.  Soon  SAinpathetie  tear-drops  start. 
Sharp  pity  overpoAvers  your  heart,  and  faith  and  fervour  vanquish  you. 

My  face  suffused  with  floods  of  brine,  while  mighty  sobs  new  breAvs 
were  broaching,  I  knelt  before  that  sacred  shrine  and  felt  conversion 
fast  approaching,  when  a  bit  of  folded  paper  white  below  the  canvas 


154      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

came  to  view.    Pushed  by  the  Fiend,  I  opened  it  and  read  the  lines  I 
read  to  you. 

"Painted  at  night,  that  God,  whose  eyes  in  secret  see,  the  work  might 
bless  and  that  my  flock  I  might  surprise  on  my  birthday.  Freely  I  con- 
fess it  was  my  gardener,  Jean  Florent,  for  blest  Saint  Hubert's  por- 
trait stood.  One  sees  nearby  the  steed  of  wood  that  by  his  youngest  son 
was  lent. 

The  duchess  of  Uzain  it  is,  ''our  duchess"  as  one  says(  it  suits  her 
whim  to  act  in  comedies) ,  who  lent  hat,  sabre,  blouse  and  boots.  But,  as 
no  breeches  could  be  had,  Florent,  the  embroglio  to  salve,  donated  those 
that,  when  a  lad,  he  wore  in  Tunis,  a  Zouave. 

The  stag — Lord,  hear  a  sinner 's  prayer  and  pardon  me ! — a  year  ago 
I  bought  in  Montfort  at  the  fair.  It  cost  ten  sous.  It  pleased  me 
though.  'Twas  from  the  Parish  Fund  I  made  this  little  purchase.  As  I 
crave  the  dying  Christ  my  soul  may  save,  'twas  only  done  the  Faith  to 
aid." 

That  finished  me  .  .  .  Posthaste  I  fled!  .  .  .  fainting,  I  gained  your 
fair  retreat,  all  pale,  with  hunger  nearly  dead  .  .  .  Come  now,  what  do 

you  say,  my  sweet? "Is  there  a  poet  in  Poesy  who  is  not  paid  with 

words?"  I  ask. — Ambrosia  may  the  gods  deny  to  him  who  finds  his  art 
a  task. 

THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  THE  KING  OF  SPAIN. 

A  FRENCH  SONG. 

Earth  and  horizons  round. 
Sky  where  three  doves  are  found. 
Sea.    Fleecy  lambs  that  bound. 
War.    Cannon  thunder-toned. 
Love  lies  asleep.  .  .  . 

Inside  my  father's  close,  grows  a  sweet  olive  tree.  Spain's  royal 
daughters  fair  they  lie  beneath  it  there. 

Alas! 


PAUL   FORT  155 

I  love  the  one  who  loves  me,  0  gay,  gay,  gay,  I  've  a  heart  so  gay !  I 
love  the  one  who  loves  me,  0  gay,  gay,  gay,  I've  a  heart  so  gay!  The 
bells  of  Love  are  chiming  deep,  sound,  sound,  myriad  sound.  Earth  and 
horizons  round.    Love  lies  asleep.  .  .  . 

Spain's  royal  daughters  fair  they  lie  beneath  it  there,  they  lie  be- 
neath it  there.  "Look,"  said  the  eldest  one.  "Sisters,  the  day's  be- 
gun." 

Alas! 

I  love  the  one  who  loves  me,  0  gay,  gay,  gay,  I've  a  heart  so  gay!  I 
love  the  one  who  loves  me,  0  gay,  gay,  gay,  I've  a  heart  so  gay!  The 
god  of  Love  his  psean  shakes,  sound,  sound,  sound.  Sky  where  three  doves 
are  found.     Sweet  love  awakes.  .  .  . 

"Look,"  said  the  eldest  one.  "Sisters,  the  day's  begun.  Sisters, 
the  day's  begun."  The  second  said,  "Ah  me!  Where  can  our  lovers 
be?" 

Alas! 

I  love  the  one  who  loves  me,  0  gay,  gay,  gay,  I  've  a  heart  so  gay  I  I 
love  the  one  who  loves  me,  0  gay,  gay,  gay,  I've  a  heart  so  gay  I  The 
god  of  Love  his  pasan  shakes,  sound,  sound,  sound,  myriad  sound.  Sea. 
Fleecy  lambs  that  bound.    Sweet  love  awakes.  .  .  . 

The  second  said,  "Ah  me !  "Where  can  our  lovers  be?  Where  can  our 
lovers  be?"    The  youngest,  she  is  dead,  in  love's  felicity. 

Alas! 

I  love  the  one  who  loves  me,  0  gay,  gay,  gay,  I  've  a  heart  so  gay  I  I 
love  the  one  who  loves  me,  0  gay,  gay,  gay,  I  've  a  heart  so  gay !  The 
bells  of  Love  are  chiming  deep.  Sound,  sound,  myriad  sound.  War. 
Cannon  thunder-toned.    Love  lies  asleep.  .  .  . 

Earth  and  horizons  round. 
Sky  where  three  doves  are  found. 
Sea.    Fleecy  lambs  that  bound. 
War.    Cannon  thunder-toned. 
Love  lies  asleep.  .  .  . 
Alas! 


156  SELECTED   POEMS   AND   BALLADS   OF 

TWO  COTTAGES 
IN  THE  LAND  OF  THE  YVELINB. 

1916. 


It  is  the  land  of  azure  frogs.  .  .  a 

Pierre  LELONa. 

THE  JOURNEY. 

The  train  puffs  off,  and  we  depart, — fay  of  my  heart,  enchanted  Muse, 
— speeding  to  summer's  azure  heart,  to  that  vaunted  ground  where  trees 
are  found  as  thick  as  rushes  in  the  ooze. 

'Tis  in  the  land  of  the  Yveline,  Muse,  a  cottage  waits  for  you  and  me, 
there  it  awaits  us,  small  and  fine,  a  rustic  cot,  yet  half-divine,  so  clean, 
so  white,  such  hai-mony ! 

This  much  alone  I  know,  my  love,  that  it  waits  'neath  many  a  heaven 
blue,  and  was  chosen  for  us  by  Vibert  that  we  might  spoil  with  verses 
there  his  wood-cuts,  prefaced  by  Helleu.* 

On  we  speed :  Saint  Cyr,  farewell  to  thee,  Grignan,  Plaisir,  Neauphle- 
le-Vieux,  Montfort,  Galluis;  and  soon  La  Queue.  In  a  hamlet — sweet 
futurity ! — tonight  how  happy  we  shall  be ! 

This  hamlet  christened  Les  Haizettes,  beneath  Gros  Rouvre,  hard  by 
Baisson,  from  tonight  we  there  .  .  .  but  hurry  on,  our  spirits  much  re- 
joiced. Musette,  that  with  Haizettes  doth  rhyme  "noisettes." 

Let  us  love  already  Yveline,  the  land  where  mused  the  young  Racine 
when  all  day  he  stayed  away  from  school  to  the  horror  of  Monsieur 
Nicole.    Shall  we  be  less  frivolous.  Muse  of  mine  ? 

*  An  allusion  to  the  "work"  assigned  to  the  author  by  his  friend  the  art-editor 
Helleu,  which  consisted  in  underlining  with  poems  the  wood-engravings  of  an  album 
composed  by  the  excellent  engraver,  Eugene  Vibert,  in  honour  of  the  land  of  the 
Yveline. 


PAUL   FORT  157 

This  train  goes  well.  The  Yvette  I  've  seen  cut,  with  the  blade  of  its 
pruning-hook,  fields  gold  in  the  sunset's  ardent  sheen,  and  this  one- 
journey's  end  I  ween — quenches  the  gleam  that  lights  my  book. 

Here  is  La  Queue,  where  we  descend.  Like  an  altar  doth  Vibert  ex- 
tend his  arms,  his  beard,  his  progeny,  then  the  Lieutel  he  indicates  whose 
stream  I  thought  was  the  Yvette 's. 

I  present  him,  lovely  Muse,  to  thee. 

THE  LITTLE  CALVES  OF  LES  HAIZETTES. 

Here  in  my  little  hamlet,  three  most  marvelous  animals  there  be,  three 
little  calves,  three  treasures  small,  white  marked  with  yellow  are  they  all. 

Couched  on  the  daisy-dotted  leas,  like  plutocrats  they  rest  at  ease, 
and  when  I  pass  them,  slow  or  fleet,  follow  the  cadence  of  my  feet. 

So  much  that,  reading  yestere'en  Francis  of  Sales,  whom  I  rave  about; 
yes,  the  introduction  rare,  supreme,  and  so  tender,  to  the  Life  Devout, 

going  and  coming,  diligent  the  well-known  path  to  tread  once  more, 
feeling  a  virgin  sentiment  bom  in  my  soul,  a  pang  obscure, 

they  marked  with  gently-swaying  head  the  cadence  of  my  pious  tread ; 
three  little  calves,  their  gaze  intent  on  me,  as  to  Gambaiseuil  I  went: 

Lamb  of  God,  on  the  road  to  Paradise,  Elysian  hazel-nuts  to  get,  may 
there  follow  me  the  sweet,  dark  eyes  of  the  little  calves  of  Les  Haizettes. 

OUR  COTTAGE  IN  YVELINE. 

Cottage,  your  trinkets  are  the  rose,  the  marguerite; 
These  colours  twined  above,  these  candours  at  your  feet. 
Fair  cottage.  Nature  here  contrives  our  lives  to  bless 
In  sheltering  our  hearts  with  clustered  blossoms  pure. 
Cottage,  this  will  endure  as  long  as  happiness. 


158  SELECTED   POEMS   AND   BALLADS   OF 

THE  AZURE  FROG. 

I 

PRAYER  TO  THE  GOOD  FORESTER. 

Good  forester,  upon  our  knees  we  pray  you,  tell  us,  if  you  please,  how, 
here  amid  his  native  bog,  to  know  the  famous  azure  frog? 

Because  bright  green  the  others  are?  because  he's  heavy?  alert?  Be- 
cause he  flees  the  ducks'  voracious  maws?  or  sways  upon  a  nenuphar? 

Through  his  voice  that  sounds  with  pearly  tone?  because  he  bears  a 
crest,  maybe?  or  is  wont  to  dream  in  company?  beside  his  mate? 
or  quite  alone? 

Having  reflected  carefully,  and  scanned  the  bog  with  glances  keen, 
the  good  old  man  replied  to  me,  "By  this,  because  he's  never  seen." 

II. 

RESPONSE  TO  THE  FORESTER. 

Good  forester,  you  lied !  Thus  is  my  joy  betrayed.  This  very  morn  I 
spied  a  sapphire  quadruped.  Leagued  with  the  sunny  sheen,  lured  by 
the  heaven's  clear  hue,  its  glossy  form  was  green,  but  mirrored  stainless 
blue. 

III. 

REMORSE. 

I  erred!  the  thing  exists.  Its  little  heart  doth  beat.  But  it  dies  be- 
tween my  fists,  by  faltering  life  forsook,  caught  by  a  child  who  came 
to  try  that  angling  feat,  red  flannel  for  his  bait,  a  pin  to  serve  for 
hook. 

Pardon,  0  little  soul  that  sings  so  sweet  and  high  when  the  broad 
argent  moon  has  its  paraselenes,  dead  thus  between  my  hands,  what 
pain  my  spirit  gleans!  and  blue,  yes,  thou  art  blue,  as  blue  as  deepest 
sky! 


PAUL   FORT  159 

Must,  on  the  breeze,  thy  dust  to  lands  afar  be  blown !  Light  fairy,  of 
the  woods,  a  phantom  pale  thou  art.  Blue,  I  mouni  thee,  green,  alas! 
what  would  I  then  have  done?  I  would  have  tossed  thee  back.  Im- 
perfect is  the  heart. 

THE  POACHER'S  TIME-PIECE. 

In  the  viewless  belfry-top  reared  by  the  shades  of  night  the  round 
moon  is  a  clock  that  marks  the  hours  in  flight. — No  circling  hands  are 
set  on  the  moon's  face,  you  find?  Nor  any  beadle  yet  its  coiling  spring 
doth  wind?  Yet  it  chimeth  none  the  less.  When  midnight  once  is 
passed,  hark,  'neath  the  forest  vast,  to  the  sounds  and  silences.  One ! 
the  finch  proclaims  it.  Two!  The  warbler  sable-crested,  and  half-past 
two  the  quail  and  the  warbler  crimson-breasted.  Three!  The  owlet's 
whit-tu-whoo,  and  the  blackbird's  whistle  gay.  Four!  The  brown- 
headed  tit  trills,  and  Avith  throat  of  grey  the  field-lark  answers  it.  Five, 
'tis  the  sparrows  all!  (Crazed  is  the  nightingale  who,  with  her  dolorous 
tune,  floods  the  still,  moonlit  glades  from  midnight  black  till  day.  O'er 
her  wrong,  no  god  hath  power.) — What  if  tonight  we  lack — like  snipping 
scissor-blades  that,  small  and  small,  divide  Time  into  tiny  shreds — ^two 
hands  to  grace  the  moon !  Did  the  Great  Beadle  fail  to  wind  the  spring 
aright?    What  does  the  poacher  care?    In  the  birds  he  finds  the  hour. 

A  SORCERER  BEFORE  MY  HOUSE. 

To  Pierre  Lelong,  my  neiglibour 
at  Haizettes  and  the  author  of  that 
astonishing  hook:  "In  the  Land  of 
Azure  Frogs.'* 

We  who  beheld  this  sight  were  two,  I  swear,  Pierre  Lelong  and  I. 
Pierre,  by  nature  far  more  sly  than  I,  obtained  the  better  view. 

At  Haizettes,  hard  by  my  woods  it  was — you  must  believe  our  fer- 
vent vows — Pierre  and  I  beheld  him  thus,  dancing  beneath  the  pear-tree 
boughs. 

Above,  the  mellow  moon  enhanced  skies  green  with  evening's  waning 
light.  The  wizard,  screeching  as  he  danced,  juggled  with  roses  red  and 
white, 


160      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

hurled  them  so  high,  so  swift,  despite  the  obstructing  screen  of 
boughs,  that  soon  his  garland  reached  heaven's  cloudless  height  and 
seemed  to  wind  about  the  moon. 

And  we  saw  the  moon — ^though  I  attest  Pierre  Lelong  observed  it  best 
— into  the  pear-tree  sink,  and  there  sway  like  a  ripe  and  luscious  pear 

beneath  three  leaves  its  silver  blanches;  but  at  once  the  orb  that 
gently  rocked  was  croaked  at.  chanted  at,  and  mocked,  in  the  foliage  on 
the  fruited  branches, 

by  azure  toads,  fantastic  things,  girdled  with  scarlet,  crowned  with 
gold,  as  in  Trees  of  Jesse  you  behold  the  seated  effigies  of  kings. 

' '  My  dog  at  the  bishop 's  self  may  stare,  at  confirmation, ' '  quoth  Pierra 
' '  Profane  observers  though  we  be,  let  us  approach,  but  warily, 

tiptoe."  Our  sorcerer  deformed,  who  for  a  satyr  might  have  posed, 
hump-backed,  knock-kneed,  with  temples  horned,  a  wild  and  noble  head 
disclosed. 

His  mantle  was  an  eglantine  where  a  myriad  trembling  blossoma 
twined.  The  dew  in  droplets  crystalline  rolled  from  his  nape  to  his 
behind. 

And  in  the  grass,  his  sabots  through,  his  cleft  hoofs  plainly  did  ap- 
pear. They  were,  these  sabots  shiny-new  gleaming  carbuncles  glassy- 
clear. 

Now  with  a  knife,  as  sharp  as  doom,  he  cut  large  slices  from  the  moon, 
and, — enigmatic  stratagem — ^among  the  toads  divided  them. 

Was  it  curiosity  alone,  or  did  we  wish  to  have  a  share  of  that  enor- 
mous summer  moon,  of  that  translucent,  mammoth  pear? 

a  further  step  we  hazarded.  The  faun,  with  swiftly  lifted  head,  showed 
us  two  swelling  tears.    '  *  'Tis  plain  the  wizards  are  the  gods  that  reign 

o'er  poets.  Kneel !"  my  comrade  said.  Mistake!  For  me  the  vision 
fled.    Lelong  beheld  the  faun  aloof  hanging  beneath  my  cottage  roof. 


PAUL   FORT  IGl 

"At  first  I  took  him  for  an  ape,"  he  said.  "Nearby,  was  this  a  shape 
of  smoke'?  ...  or  clothes  hung  out  to  air?  .  .  .  Bah!  nearer  there  was 
nothing  there." 

We  who  beheld  this  sight  were  two,  I  swear,  Pierre  Lelong  and  I. 
Pierre  obtained  the  better  view,  for  Nature  has  no  fox  so  sly. 


SONG  OF  THE  EVENING. 

How  does  it  reach  me,  the  forest  wind  that  lulls  the  palms  at  night? 

What  could  it  teach  me,  the  forest  wind  that  shakes  the  hearth-fire 
bright? 

What  thing  does  it  want,  the  forest  wind  that  taps  at  the  pane,  then 
flies? 

What  sight  doth  haunt  the  forest  wind  that  it  warns  with  fearful 
cries? 

What  have  I  done  to  the  forest  wind  that  it  tears  my  soul  with 
dread  ? 

What,  to  me,  is  the  forest  wind,  in  sum,  that  so  many  tears  I  shed  ? 

THE  AXE. 

To  the  soul  there  is  no  sound  that  chimes  more  dolorously,  no  sound 
of  more  severe,  of  more  religious  tone — ^sudden  it  holds  you  mute,  it 
turns  you  to  a  stone — ^than  the  sonorous  shock  of  steel  against  a  tree. 

I  love  to  hear  that  sound  where  conquering  death  intrudes.  Yes,  I 
dearly  love  to  hear,  seeking  the  distant  sun,  the  dull  blows  of  the  axe 
resound  with  muffled  tone,  amid  the  silence  vast  of  dim  and  sombre 
woods. 

Closing  my  eyes  I  see,  as  of  the  soul  I  dream,  the  fatal  woodsman 
strike.  No  rancour  speeds  his  bloAvs.  Taciturn  he  strikes,  he  reckons 
up  his  woes  before  his  hut  of  logs,  where  ravening  flame  doth  gleam. 


162      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

He  strikes.  .  .  .  Thus  round  him  death,  with  axe-blade  rapier-keen, 
strikes,  strikes,  and  strikes  again,  with  strokes  no  rancour  brings.  May- 
be gain  some  trifling  joy  'mid  such  excess  of  woes!  'Mid  dull,  resound- 
ing blows  with  friendly  voice  serene 

to  the  old  chopper  of  oaks  the  robin  blithely  sings. 

THE  ADIEU  TO  HAIZETTES. 

Two  glutted  barrows  we  despatch,  filled  with  our  things.  We  cannot 
wait.    The  weather-cock  above  the  thatch  utters  a  cry  so  desolate! 

We  go  ...  to  each  his  mode.  .  .  .  For  me,  sobs  bow  my  head,  my 
eyes  are  wet.  Then  fare  thee  well  our,  my  Haizettes !  Cottage,  we  must 
depart  from  thee ! 

Carlegle,  whose  talent  'tis  to  draw,  arrives  and  claims  the  right  to 
make  us  to  a  more  modest  cot  betake  us,  'neath  narrower  thatch  of 
barley-straw. 

'Tis  not  his  fault.  I'd  but  to  go  sooner  than  he  the  rent  to  pay.  I 
did  not.    What  regrets  today !    He  takes  tomorrow  my  chateau, 

our  happy  cottage  of  content  where  such  sweet  dreams  we  used  to 
find.  There,  with  his  mocking  temperament,  he'll  sketch  cartoons  of 
all  mankind, 

and  on  the  wicker  chair  repose,  sole  witness  of  his  labours,  ah!  and, 
when  his  task  has  reached  its  close,  sleep  in  our  bed  like  a  pasha. 

But  will  he  wake  at  night,  half-dead  with  dread,  to  hear  upon  the 
blast  the  Ghostly  Huntsman  thundering  past — depart,  and  after,  die  of 
laughter  1 

And  at  morning,  towards  the  dewy  lea  bent  from  the  threshold,  will 
he  see  thee,  bare,  thy  hair  in  shimmering  rout?  Such  sights  he'll  have 
to  do  without. 

When  on  the  earth  sweet  evening  falls,  like  a  twin  radiance  will  he 
see  softly  traverse  the  cottage  walls  the  angels,  Fervour  and  Mystery  ? 


PAUL   FORT  163 

Door  locked  and  windows  shuttered  tight,  will  he  have  our  countless 
dreams,  or  chance  to  see  this  Lily,*  tall  and  white,  'twixt  us  and  all  the 
shades  adance? 

Rules  underlie  the  draughtsman's  art.  But  on  this  day  with  sor- 
rows full,  he  strikes  us  on  our  anguished  heart  with  an  imaginary  rule, 

this  good  Carlegle,  this  worthy  man,  whom  may  there  save  from 
Fortune's  rigour  Saint  Bamboulibougnabounigger,  patron  of  every  ar- 
tisan. 

Two  glutted  barrows  we  despatch  .  .  .  there's  no  recourse  ...  we 
cannot  wait.  The  weather-cock  upon  the  thatch  utters  a  cry  so  deso- 
late! 

THE  NEW  COTTAGE 

or 

THE  VALE 
OF  CHARMS  THAT  NEVER  CEASE. 

(Valley  of  Gambaseuil.) 

On  earth  two  lovers  can  you  meet  more  thrilled  and  overjoyed  than 
we,  before  the  grace  and  mystery  of  a  valley  so  surpassing  sweet? 

Let  it  rain!  One  sees  the  meads  outspread  their  silks  in  diapered 
array ;  we  imitate  it  on  the  bed  of  tender  love,  when  it  rains  by  day. 

When  it  rains  by  night  the  vale  resounds  with  singing  frogs.  En- 
chanting sounds!  And  from  the  beechen  coppice  sweet,  minute,  the 
muffled  drums  discreet ! 

The  skies  (tomorrow  ^vill  be  fine)  like  old  cathedral  windows  shine 
beneath  the  boughs.  The  birth  of  mom  the  vale  with  carmine  will 
adorn. 

Rattle  of  dew  and  bubbling  springs,  how  the  bright  morning  Phcebus 
now  toys  with  you  in  his  wantonings,  while  roses  cro-WTi  his  infant 
brow! 

*  The  candle. 


164      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OP 

Their  bells  evaporated  all,  paths,  bushes,  trees  and  fields  appear:  a 
horse  that  distance  renders  small  crosses  the  vale  in  swift  career, 

the  vale  that  noon's  bright  pinion  grazes,  made  of  a  web  of  irised 
things,  gay  dragon-flies  and  midges  wings,  and  muslin  wreathed  in  shim- 
mering mazes. 

The  cattle  drowse,  'tis  a  delight,  on  the  meadow's  flower-besprinkled 
breast:  their  tufted  tails,  in  whisking  quest,  disturb  a  tuft  of  daisies 
white. 

And  our  cottage,  that  with  mantling  leaves  the  spreading  ivy  cov- 
ereth,  more  easily  to  draw  its  breath,  unhooks  it  just  below  the  eaves. 

'Tis  three  o'clock,  the  calm  hour  of  the  bees,  the  hottest  of  the  day, 
beneath  their  wings  the  blossoms  sway  while  the  whole  vale  is  filled  with 
love. 

There  his  warm  heart  the  sunset  lays  in  mystic  silence,  and  the  vale 
with  fervour  takes  it,  all  ablaze,  keeps  it  and  thinks  there  cannot  fail 

to  rise  through  night's  serenity  the  star  that  rules  the  eventide — 
Venus  with  softly-gleaming  knee — the  bride,  'mid  vapours  pale,  the 
bride  I 

And  these  are  magic  rites :  the  moon,  the  stars  are  asked,  Saint  Elmo's 
fires,  and,  to  declaim  the  wedding  tune,  the  Milky  Way  vouchsafes  its 
choirs. 

Some  evenings  we  are  stay-at-homes.  In  our  garden-close  so  sweet  it 
is  that  sweeter  still  the  vale  becomes  in  listening  to  our  destinies. 

For  our  garden  is  the  leaf,  of  old  from  the  tree  of  Eden  lightly  whirled, 
where  two  bare  glow-worms  find  their  world — made  in  our  semblance  we 
are  told. 

0  fervent  nights!  0  long  desires!  When  the  warm  zephyrs  fan  our 
fires!  ...  Is  it  enough  to  christen  you — eternity's  true  masterpiece — 

the  vale  of  charms  that  never  cease  ? 


PAUL   FORT  165 

THE  THRILL  OF  THE  FOREST. 

In  the  green-lit  solitudes  of  the  road  beneath  the  woods  as  clear,  re- 
flected light  an  emerald  doth  renew — from  moss  to  canopy  roams  a 
white  butterfly,  but, — fleeting  memory — already  fades  from  view: 

The  impact  of  my  tread,  beneath  the  gathering  night,  makes  mystical 
the  shade,  the  pine-trees'  towering  height,  and  the  road  that's  lost  to 
sight  where  ray  soul  had  thought  to  see  the  splendour,  pale  and  dead, 
of  the  tarn 's  serenity. 

I  shrink  from  everj''  noise.  "What  may  the  next  one  prove  ?  And  this 
shrinking  dread  I  love,  and  this  lurking  noise  I  fear.  To  sorrovrs  as  to 
joys  my  soul  entire  I  give.  Would  I  wish  to  perish  here?  Or,  hidden, 
there  to  live? 

What  hour  endui*es  for  aye  'neath  the  darkling  forest  cowl?  Is  it 
dawn  or  death  of  day,  this  twilight  gloom  forlorn?  Is  it  the  li\'ing 
souls  of  trees  that  from  their  boles  are  drawn,  or  spectres  dread  of  forest 
monarchs  dead  that  silently  return  their  ancient  realms  to  prowl? 

To  the  gesturing  fern,  the  flight  of  the  pheasant  I  arouse,  to  the  quiet 
of  my  feet,  to  the  murmuring  infinite  of  the  silence,  to  the  far  gulfs, 
where  star  succeeds  to  star,  that  leaves  of  whispering  boughs  in  count- 
less myriads  beat, 

to  the  full  moon's  frigid  ball  whence  a  mute  wind  doth  lull  the  great 
frost,  suddenly  between  dark  branches  ta'en,  like  quicksilver  my  soul 
divides  itself  tonight  only  immediately  to  recombine  again! 

Do  I  give  this  soul  of  mine  to  sorrows  or  to  joys?  I  shrink  from 
every  noise.  What  may  the  next  one  prove  ?  And  this  shrinking  dread  I 
love  and  this  lurking  noise  I  fear.  Would  I  wish  to  perish  here  ?  Or, 
hidden,  there  to  live? 

That  which  grips  me,  to  caress,  then,  like  a  rapier-stroke,  through 
soul  and  body  goes,  is  all  this:  joys  or  gi-iefs?  'Tis  the  odour  of  the 
moss,  and  of  the  forest  leaves,  pierced  by  the  scent  of  smoke  fi-om  dis- 
tant villages ! 


166  SELECTED    POEMS   AND    BALLADS    OF 

FIRST  DAY  OF  WAR. 

'Twixt  sleep  and  wakefulness  sweet  dreams  that  lightly  pass.  Calm 
of  the  break  of  day!  Tranquillity  of  dream,  when  from  my  bed  I  see 
the  willows'  azure  gleam!  Beside  me  Love  doth  lay  his  brow.  This 
breathes  for  sign.  Yes,  I  hear  a  beating  heart  not  far  apart  from  mine. 
No !  Droll !  I  am  alone.  .  .  .  My  fair  companion  now  the  casement  sets 
ajar.  I  hear  the  blind  miaul. — Like  a  cat  she  must  have  gone, — 0,  what 
a  fresh  delight,  in  her  contour's  gentle  curve,  is  my  love,  so  fair  and 
young,  with  naught  to  hide  her  form  save  for  a  floating  shawl,  as  if 
the  gloom  of  night  still  to  her  shoulder  clung. 

She  whose  nature  is  so  gay,  so  tranquil,  that  her  eye  finds  all  about 
her  way  causes  for  ecstacy,  can  she  have  left  me  thus  the  irised  dawn 
to  see  o'er  our  asparagus.  .  .  .  What  incivility! — Have  you  not  heard 
the  drum?" — "Come,  be  sensible!"  "Have  you  not  heard  the  village 
drum?" — What  is  there  left  to  do?  I  arise.  0  love  in  tears!  I  wish 
to  know  at  once  the  cause  of  these  alarms.  "Well,  there  he  is,  this  dunce 
of  a  drummer  who  doth  move  my  rage.  Our  ears  he  charms  with  a 
furious  tattoo." 

* '  He  halts  before  my  door  his  paper  to  unwind.  As  here  the  village 
guard  is  the  drummer,  I  engage  he  comes  to  reprobate  a  cock's  nocturnal 
flight,  felonious  it  appears,  or  a  fat  pet  rabbit  caught  by  a  poaching 
good-for-naught.  This  is  well  worth  your  tears,  well  worth  your  scrut- 
iny!"   " What's  all  this  rumpus? — War! — At  first  it  seems  to  me 

that  I  'm  becoming  blind.  Where  am  I  ?  All  is  night.  Who  touched  me 
then?  I  see,  my  sight  returns  once  more.  What  spirit  forces  me  to 
gaze  while  from  the  sky  a  rain  of  frenzied  stars  crashes  eternally  ? 

"Look  there!" — "My  love!" — It's  worse  even  than  the  tempest's 
squall.  ...  I  feel  that  I  must  go,  I've  no  more  courage,  Paul."  On  my 
threshold,  what  portend  this  man,  arms  raised  to  heaven,  who  seems 
about  to  weep,  and  the  paper  that  he  bears  which  trembles  in  the 
wind?  And  he  is  not  alone.  0,  that  form  in  mourning  deep,  that 
Avoman  kneeling  low  to  this  boy  so  vowed  to  Mars.  "Help  me,  kind 
gentleman.  We  must  change  this.  I'm  the  mother  of  two  sons,  one  is 
dead  and  this  soldier  is  the  other.  What  is  all  this  that's  said  of  the 
Germans?  Pity  me!  Come,  this  paper  thrice  accursed,  you  could  tear 
it  easily." 


PAUL   FORT  167 

Through  the  still  room  a  cry  shudders,  to  die  unheard.  Upon  her  bed 
I  lay  my  swooning  love. — Absurd,  but  I  know  no  longer  where  to  find 
things,  come,  I  mean  ...  to  soothe  her  .  .  .  what!  I  dream  twisting 
her  raven  hair?  Yes,  twisting  her  cold  hair,  o'er  a  cold  land  I  see — is  it 
Flanders  or  Champagne,  is  it  Alsace  or  Lorraine  ? — a  ploughshare  slowly 
ride,  a  peasant  guides  it  straight,  raising  for  goad  the  scythe  fashioned 
by  yeai-s  of  hate;  sudden  I  see  the  sky  flame  .  .  .  what  then  do  I  see? 
...  all  the  furrows  tremble  now  and,  'neath  gold  gleams  outspread,  the 
great,  black  oxen  plough  'twixt  crossas  of  the  dead. 

POEMS  OF  FRANCE. 

1914-1915. 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  RHEIMS. 

On  the  Idtli  of  Septemler,  1914, 
the  CatJiedral  of  Rlieims  was  bom- 
barded and  set  on  fire  by  the  German 
troops.  Baron  von  Plattenberg,  gen- 
eral of  infantry,  aid  de  camp  general, 
and  chief  of  the  Royal  Pr\issian 
Guard,  is  the  author  responsible  for 
this  crime. 

Infamous  general.  Baron  von  Plattenberg,  if  this  song  of  love  for  my 
church  from  you  derives  its  source,  in  settlement  I  give,  sure  of  their 
lasting  force,  the  buffet  of  the  poets  and  the  scaffold  of  the  Word — but 
I  've  good  store  of  blows  to  pay  my  votive  debt  to  all  the  vaunting  Huna 
that  I  have  ever  met. 

Before  its  portals,  near  "The  Golden  Lion'*  I  was  bom. — ^A  babe,  my 
eyes  yet  dimmed  by  shimmering  Paradise,  I  dreamed  it,  and  perhaps 
saw  hazy  towers  uprear  music  diaphanous  athwart  the  morning  skies, 
such  as  they  may  appear  where  subtlest  angels  range  whose  senses,  light 
as  air,  cohere  and  interchange. 


168      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

The  cathedral,  too,  was  chanted,  no  doubt,  that  eventide,  real  or  un- 
real in  fluctuant  majesty,  by  the  angel  choirs  of  Rheims  for  my  nativity, 
or,  being  but  one  soul  in  flower  and  naught  beside,  just  by  my  guardian 
angel,  God's  blessing  to  impart.  I  swear  that  even  then  it  enchanted  my 
French  heart. 

The  angelic  murmuring  turned,  imperceptibly,  upon  my  mother's  lips, 
to  a  human  lullaby.  And  soon  the  dire  complaint  of  good  king  Jean 
Renaud  (albeit  in  those  days  the  words  I  did  not  kn'ow)  made  vanish 
from  my  sight  in  the  abysms  dim,  till  the  day  I  die,  the  chant  of  the 
bright  cherubim. 

Infamous  general,  Baron  von  Plattenberg,  if  this  song  of  love  for  my 
church  from  you  derives  its  source,  in  settlement  I  give,  sure  of  their 
lasting  force,  the  buffet  of  the  poets  and  the  scaffold  of  the  Word — but 
I  've  good  store  of  blows  to  pay  my  votive  debt  to  all  the  vaunting  Huns 
that  I  have  ever  met. 

Mother,  one  day  your  song  broke  off,  when  scarce  begun,  on  the  word 
"war";  and  you,  bent  toward  your  little  son  and,  pressing  to  my  brow 
your  fingers'  purities,  all  joyously  exclaimed:  "He  sees!  He  sees!  He 
sees ! ' '  My  father  smiled  to  see  that  child-like  haste  of  thine  to  turn  my 
virgin  eyes  toward  the  great  church  sublime : 

"Look!"  Yes!  Though  certainly  my  eyes,  unsealed  but  then,  could 
make  out  naught  beyond  the  blueness  of  the  pane  and  the  snowy  cur- 
tains there  above  the  ogive  calm,  and  your  hands,  so  white  they  fed  my 
soul  a  milky  balm.  For  me  the  cathedral's  birth  more  gradually  took 
place,  immense,  broad,  real,  dreamed,  in  a  single  moment's  space. 

Its  birth  took  place  for  me,  divined  by  my  glad  eyes,  on  a  morning  in 
the  spring  when  crying  swallows  soared.  My  child's  hands  clutched  at 
it  in  the  azure  of  the  skies.  Reborn  with  every  dawn,  it  kept  a  faithful 
ward,  all  habited  by  saints,  by  heroes  and  by  kings,  by  angels  in  mid- 
flight,  a  tree  athrill  with  wings. 

Great  plaything  of  my  soul,  French  grove  of  stones,  that  came  with 
your  two  towers  to  be  my  boyhood's  giant  toys,  you  have  remained  the 
one  sport  that  my  soul  enjoys  with  your  three  porches  high,  in  triangle 
of  flame,  and  over  them  the  rose  where  pigeons  in  their  flight  peck  with 
a  greedy  bill  at  prismed  motes  of  light. 


PAUL   FORT  169 

Then,  my  Cathedral,  -when  in  after  days  I  came  with  your  angel-pinions 
white  the  wings  of  a  kite  to  blend,  how  with  my  boisterous  cries  I  made 
your  echoes  quail,  and,  following  my  cries,  hair  streaming  in  the  wind, 
surrounded  your  old  walls  with  many  a  children's  game,  but  when  I  was 
your  guest,  a  lad  distraught  and  pale, 

launched  on  the  eager  quest  of  the  flower  of  ecst-acy — hands  reaching 
towards  the  light  that  your  gemmed  windows  lave — ah !  how  the  sacred 
fright  that  doth  the  soul  surprise  o'ercamc  me  in  the  nave  where  sang 
those  accents  grave  well-known  to  children 's  hearts  in  the  days  of  Para- 
dise, when  I  whispered  to  thee,  "I" — how  thou  returnedst  it  me! 

Infamous  general.  Baron  von  Plattenberg,  if  this  song  of  love  for  my 
church  from  you  derives  its  source,  in  return  I  give  you,  sure  of  their 
immortal  force,  the  buffet  of  the  poets  and  the  scaffold  of  the  Word — but 
I  've  good  store  of  hate  to  pay  my  votive  debt  to  all  the  vaunting  Huns 
that  I  have  ever  met. 

And  when  I  once  had  dreamed,  Basilica,  of  thee,  thou  didst  obsess 
my  dreams  above  all  earthly  things.  Thy  saints  and  thy  apostles,  thy 
angels  and  our  kings,  with  those  two  mighty  towTi-s  the  flush  of  davm. 
prolongs,  and  thy  windows'  miracles  in  warm,  prismatic  throngs,  Basil- 
ica, enthralled  my  nights  of  infancy. 

Your  forest  o'er  me  spreads  its  faces  intert\vined,  and  like  great 
trunks  embraced  by  gnarled  lianas  stout,  buttresses,  capitals  of  an  in- 
fernal kind,  gables  and  shafts,  arouse  a  diabolic  rout,  subtle,  persuasive 
fiends,  gross  demons  from  the  Pit  or  strange,  ethereal  shapes,  haunt- 
ing and  exquisite. 

One  portico  supports  Hell  itself:  yes,  plain  to  view,  on  the  church's 
northern  wall,  its  fires  congealed  by  frost.  Eh,  what  of  that!  They'll 
still  have  heat  enough  to  roast  prelates  that  had  black  souls  and  croz- 
iered  abbes,  too.  But  what  good  humour's  there?  One  would  imagine 
that  they  quite  enjoyed  it,  trussed  in  Satan's  sulphurous  vat. 

To  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells,  the  chime  my  dream  attunes,  that 
Portal  vast,  the  door  of  the  Virgin,  now  doth  ries  and  her  rose-windowed 
walls  where  blue  Heaven  echellons  ten  winged  legions,  decked  with  mitres 


170      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OP 

and  with  crowns    (seeming  some  fragrant  bower  all   eehelloned  with 
blooms),  bear  Our  Blessed  One  and  G-od  who  crowns  her  in  the  skies. 

Up  from  a  dais  filled  with  belfries  small  it  surges,  as  a  sweet, 
country  sun  doth  o'er  the  sky-line  start,  and,  poised  in  billowing  mist, 
the  Rose  its  vermeil  heart,  'mid  tremulous  splendours,  swift  from  prison- 
ing night  emerges,  launched  in  the  dazzling  day  like  some  resplendent 
lance,  up  to  the  sky  ?    Ah,  no !    To  where  the  kings  of  France 

assembled,  side  by  side,  fix  their  regards  on  France,  yonder,  beneath 
the  towers,  an  audience  august.  Here  is  the  snowy  flock  of  our  royal 
s^vains  robust  that  a  blazing  glory  now  exalts!  ...  0  flame  intense! 
Lo,  all  ascends !  The  turn  of  these  proud  towers  has  come,  and,  gestur- 
ing their  love,  they  mount  to  Heaven's  blue  dome. 

Infamous  general,  Baron  von  Plattenberg,  if  this  song  of  love  and 
dream  from  you  derives  its  source,  in  return  I  give  you,  sure  of  their 
immortal  force  the  buffet  of  the  poets  and  the  scaffold  of  the  Word — 
but  I've  good  store  of  hate  to  pay  my  votive  debt  to  all  the  vaunting 
Huns  that  I  have  ever  met. 

From  the  flaming  porticos  of  Christ  and  of  Saint  Paul,  and  the 
myriad  window-flare,  the  towers  like  incense  rise.  On  these  the  fancy 
broods  and  just  beyond  them  spies  uplifting  tree-trunks,  dart,  great 
bows  in  parallel :  bushes  and  trees  of  stone,  how  clear  one  sees  them  all  I 
Even  the  wandering  Beasts  that  in  the  Forest  dwell. 

Whence  comes  this  high,  clear  noise  the  echoes  now  repeat?  A  bed- 
side angel  sounds  his  silver  trumpet  sweet?  No,  dream  deludes  my 
sense.  Towards  the  cathedral  square  I  needs  must  turn  my  eyes:  this 
clear  sound  comes  from  there.  Thither  let  all  the  eyes  of  my  rapt 
vision  bend  and  taste  their  pleasure  there  before  the  dream  doth  end. 

Jeanne  d'Arc,  0  ghostly  Maid  adored,  you  are  there  anew!  Lifting 
your  standard  high  the  herald  sounds,  and  Charles,  in  royal  purple 
clothed,  doth,  docile,  follow  you.  But  see,  by  a  people  hedged  that  all 
about  you  swirls,  calls  to  you,  loves  you,  seeks,  presses  and  follows  you 
—0  Shepherdess!— in  sign  of  mounting  hope  advance,  led  by  your  form 
the  flock  of  future  kings  of  France. 


PAUL   FORT  171 

Infamous  general,  Baron  von  Plattenberg,  if  this  song  of  love  and 
dream  from  you  derives  its  source  in  return  I  leave  you,  sure  of  their 
immortal  force,  the  buffet  of  the  poets  and  the  scaffold  of  the  Word, — 
but  I've  good  store  of  shame  to  pay  my  votive  debt  to  all  the  vaunting 
Huns  that  I  have  ever  met. 

Into  the  church  they  plunge,  the  peoples,  kings  and  knights,  to  the 
cry  of  Jeanne,  and  now  the  flag  that  o'er  her  streams  such  fervour 
propagates  almost  the  tumult  seems  the  sound  of  sacred  fires  that  God 
Himself  ignites,  and  lo,  it  burns  indeed!  .  .  .  the  Cathedral,  soul  of 
souls,  fervent,  to  heaven's  high  vault  in  roaring  gusts  it  rolls. 

0  vision  of  my  youth,  'tis  needful  that  you  be  (and  utterly  you  are!) 
the  Verity  for  France.  Dream  where  my  great  Cathedral  had  thought 
to  frighten  me — changed  into  soaring  flame  illumining  our  lands, — 
lyric  yet  Gallic  still,  to  you  I  owed  the  grace  of  singing  only  songs  full- 
flavoured  with  my  race. 

The  Basilica  the  form  of  that  keen  flame  assumed  when  from  the  heart 
of  Jean  d'Orbais  that  flre  did  part.  Higher,  more  quenchless  still  o'er 
the  pyre  of  Jeanne  it  loomed,  that  holocaust  towards  God  kindled  in 
each  French  heart.  As  soon  hope  to  prevail  'gainst  starry  skies  eterne, 
Baron  von  Plattenberg,  as  this  to  quench  or  burn. 

Then  thus,  our  innocent  Baron  von  Plattenberg,  I  hail  you!  This 
song  of  love  for  my  church  I  dedicate  to  you,  Jioch!  and  I  give  you 
(sure  they  endure  the  ages  through)  the  buffet  of  France,  and  my  Lyre, 
high  yard  where  now  I  nail  you.  Strings  broken  by  mj^  hand,  unpity- 
ing  scourge  and  ban  to  all  eternity  the  loathed  Barbarian ! 

September  21,  1914. 

THE  TRAITOR. 

Fain  would  I  drive  away  the  image  of  the  Spring,  Each  day  of  lilacs 
mauve,  primroses  pale,  each  day  of  frisking  lambkins  white  'mid  venial 
mists  at  play,  of  babbling  streams,  clear  skies,  and  birds  gay  jargonning, 
to  the  heart  of  heaven  unfolding  the  marguerite  of  gold  an  impassive 
deity  shreds  down  with  finger  slow,  each  day  that  gilds  the  grass,  whence 
subtle  perfumes  pass,  although  new  life  I  know  breathing  them  once 
again,  is  a  sin  of  drunkenness,  a  long  remorse  to  me. 


172      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Sin,  perfidy,  remorse  to  me  from  dawn  to  dark,  false  to  my  brothers, 
dead  for  yon,  France,  in  the  stark  nakedness  of  the  plain  or  horror  of 
the  wood,  sin  'gainst  the  dead,  the  sin  of  yearaing  yet  to  be,  original 
sin,  the  sin  of  a  voluptuous  mood,  remorse  for  being  alive,  drunk  with 
the  Spring's  gay  feast,  fiend  that  regales  the  soul  wdth  bright  hours 
exquisite,  pei-fidy  to  the  slain,  the  soldiers  dead  for  me  in  the  gr^at 
plain  to  the  north,  in  the  great  wood  to  the  east ! 

A  felon's  heart  is  mine.  Poesy,  poesy,  who  caused  me  to  assign  my 
vital  force  to  thee?  What  are  they  worth,  those  hymns  of  gladness  that 
employed  my  powers,  those  hymns  to  Spring,  scenes  of  forgotten  loves. 
Old  heart,  your  country's  racked  and  all  your  strength  is  void!  Nature 
and  nothing  more  my  singing  can  portray.  Sad,  when  one  can  but 
chant  the  breeze  in  poplar  groves,  the  sun  of  orange  storm  through  pine- 
tops  black  and  still,  the  swift  trout  in  the  stream  churned  by  the  clack- 
ing mill,  the  loriot's  laugh  that  falls  from  the  fresh  hawthorn-spray. 

Hill,  butterfly-caressed,  with  clover  overspread,  tell  me,  0  lovely  hill, 
tell  me  the  thing  you  know.  As  springlike  doth  it  show,  the  black  height 
of  Sparge,  at  this  daylight  hour  that  makes  more  wounded  and  more 
dead  ?  The  mountain  of  black  mud  heroic  charges  gain — wall  crumbling 
with  the  wreck  of  wounded  as  with  slain — a  floundering  host,  their  guns 
engulfed  in  pits  of  slime.  Flatter  my  eyes,  fair  hill,  a  felon's  heart  is 
mine  I 

0  little  stream  of  May,  forget-me-nots  enwreathe,  at  this  fair  hour  of 
eve  when  calling  peewits  glide,  tell  me,  0  little  stream,  what  happens  now 
beside  the  bankless  Yser's  tide  whence  one  sole  spire  doth  start.  Say,  does 
the  lamb  browse  there,  the  golden  broom,  the  air  absorb  the  scent  of  sage 
that  thrills  my  soul  like  wine,  or  of  a  deadly  gas  in  vortices  of  doom? 
Console  me,  vernal  stream,  mine  is  a  felon's  heart. 

Swallow  that  earthward  dips,  a  felon's  heart  is  mine. 
Storm  with  the  noise  of  steps,  a  felon 's  heart  is  mine. 
All  my  white  cherry-trees,  a  felon's  heart  is  mine. 
My  friend,  the  rainbow  arch,  a  felon 's  heart  is  mine. 
My  sweetheart,  soul  of  eve,  a  felon 's  heart  is  mine. 
Companionable  toad,  a  felon's  heart  is  mine. 
France  of  my  springtimes,  what  a  traitorous  heart  have  I ! 


PAUL   FORT  173 

A  felon's  heart  is  mine.    Poesy,  poesy,  Who  caused  me  to  assign  my 
vital  force  to  thee? 


THE  MARSEILLAISE. 


0  song  that  with  one  blow,  at  its  initial  strain,  explodes,  sets  free  the 
air  of  the  void,  invades  the  air,  is  only  air  itself  and  rends  the  hurri- 
cane, tufted  with  steps,  with  cries,  with  trumpets'  martial  blare, 

sole  song  that  frees  the  soul  with  but  a  single  blow,  so  much  that 
soul  and  song  in  towering  flame  are  blent,  that  turns  a  heedless  throng 
to  soaring  fire  intent — as  mad  Saint  Michael  sped  the  demon  to  o'er- 
throw — 

on  leaping  where  our  life  must  purge  impurities,  cleansing  the  crimes 
of  hate  and  tyrannous  desire,  or  to  eternal  deeps  hurl  down,  with  death- 
less fire,  the  re-arising  scourge  of  men  and  deities : 

the  Barbarians  on  the  march !  with  their  burned  flesh  to  fill  the  yawn- 
ing Pit  whose  lure  this  world  can  scarce  refuse, — hymn  of  naught  else 
than  flame  wherein  a  man  pursues  the  soul  that  summons  him  and  flies 
before  him  still! 

Such  is  the  song,  the  pride  that  stirs  each  Gallic  sword,  this  great  hymn 
all  aflare,  such  is  the  Mai'«eillaise,  that  our  soldiers  shall  behold  burst 
from  their  lips,  to  blaze,  terrific,  towards  the  backs  of  that  defeated 
horde. 

Valour's  universal  song,  whose  magic  accents  ring  through  the  Old 
World  and,  no  less,  through  the  Country  of  the  Free  1  Ah,  from  what- 
ever race  or  party  one  may  be,  to  the  Republic  vowed,  the  Emperor,  the 
King, 

whoever  sings  that  song,  despite  its  cruel  lines,  (no,  with  them!  I 
blaspheme!),  whoe'er  that  song  doth  start,  arises  filled  with  love,  though 
born  with  shriveled  heart,  stands  forth  with  honour  filled,  though  false 
a  hundred  times ! 


174      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Song  that  no  leisure  leaves  to  ponder  or  delay!  Which,  when  it 
dwells  in  you,  bursts  from  you  in  a  breath,  and  'tis  your  soul's  best 
part  that  thus  is  borne  away.  Sons  of  your  country,  rise  ...  to  victory 
or  death! 

It  shames  the  wounded  men.  In  a  renewing  flood  of  strength  they 
stand  erect  for  fiercer  fighting  fain !  Its  slogan  propagates  such  fury  in 
the  blood  that  it  is  but  the  dead  who  do  not  rise  again 

to  give  themselves  once  more  the  joy,  supreme  and  grim,  of  striking 
down  the  Boche,  once  more  ere  life  is  fled,  ere  they  forever  die.  Not  yet  I 
Great  strengthening  hymn,  hymn  that  resuscitates,  hymn  that  awakes 
the  dead! 

0  hymn  that  with  one  blow,  at  its  initial  strain  explodes,  sets  free  the 
air  of  the  void,  0  Marseillaise  changed  to  the  air  itself  where  whirls 
the  hurricane  of  souls  that  bear  gross  flesh  to  the  red  furnace-blaze, 

able  to  bear  to  Heaven,  purging  a^vay  their  dross,  the  unbelieving 
horde  by  worldly  wiles  enticed,  wherewith  to  dower  the  church 
triumphant,  Jesus  Christ  would  with  more  lingering  pangs  have  suf- 
fered on  the  cross. 

Of  our  strife  what  does  He  see,  the  Grod  in  Heaven  who  reigns?  For- 
ever solitude  among  the  dying  throng?  Ah,  all  upheaves  at  last,  bounds, 
flames  to  this  vast  song  arising  towards  the  clouds  from  the  entrails  of 
the  plains: 

"To  arms,  to  arms,  ye  brave !"  'Tis  from  the  Gallic  side  the  soil  spits 
volleying  steel,  the  maddened  smoke-wreaths  glide,  then  blue  horizons 
roar.  The  good  God  may  behold  their  circle  mount  on  high,  in  vapour 
aureoled. 

Such  is  this  song  whose  force  so  oft  has  rendered  tame  the  foe — the 
Barbarian,  forsworn  on  every  hand.  Shrilled  by  our  marching  files,  in 
waves  of  cadenced  flame,  it  filled  our  general's  souls,  partook  of  their 
command. 

The  Pyramids !  Fleurus  I  Arcole  and  Wattignies !  The  Marsisillaise 
doth  sing  a  dauntless  history,  and  then  'tis  our  Jouvence  and  iaakes  our 
ranks  prevail.     'Tis  not  the  faite  of  France  in  wretchedness  to  fail. 


PAUL   FORT  175 

Oft  the  Teutonic  hordes,  to  cheat  our  watcliful  guns,  howl  it  to  falling 
stars  in  the  gloom,  'Tis  well  averred  that  straight  the  air  is  foul  and 
gasping  cries  are  heard,  for  like  nux  vomica  our  hymn  affects  the  Huns. 

From  a  hundred  thousand  throats,  ah,  the  effect  was  fine  when  the 
coryphaeus'  name  was  Bonaparte.  Today  Joffre,  with  more  volume  still, 
uplifts  the  air  divine  to  his  winged  Victory  that  never  shall  give 
way! 

Flags,  oriflammes  that,  mute,  proclaim  our  victory,  piled  eagles,  pikes, 
and  guns,  the  trophies  we  retain,  cannon  of  Bois-le-Pretre,  cannon  of 
Rivoli,  and  you,  proud  azure  dome,  with  glory  gorged  again, 

witness !  'Tis  towards  this  song,  as  towards  its  places  of  doom,  there 
swirled  itself,  a  morn's  gigantic  hurricane,  the  Paris  Multitude.  A  mil- 
lion prides  were  fain  low  to  incline  themselves  before  your  quiet  tomb, 

Rouget  de  Lisle,  the  while,  in  hommage  to  your  wraith,  from  Alsace 
to  the  North  our  soldiers  chanted  loud,  Gennans  that  delve  the  soil, 
Germans  perplexed  and  cowed,  that  song  wherein  all  France  explodes 
in  fervent  faith  1 

Tremble,  'tis  in  the  air  and  in  the  air  will  stay.  'Tis  all  the  air  of 
the  world.  Your  swarms  'twiU  sweep  away.  This  Air  will  save  Alsace, 
the  country  of  its  birth  and  of  your  yoke  and  you  forever  rid  the  earth ! 

Tremble,  the  hour  is  near,  the  hour  when  you  must  die,  when  soldier- 
singei-s  prove  that  Pity's  hour  is  past,  when  Pity's  self  demands  we 
slay  you  utterly,  you  and  your  children,  too,  all,  to  the  very  last ! 

Tremble,  it  is  the  dawn  that  sees  your  crimes'  redress.  The  universe 
entire  arises  now,  and  chants  the  hymn  of  resurrection,  peace  and  de- 
liverance ...  do  you  hear  it?  .  .  .  and  the  hjonn,  the  hjTnn  of  Ven- 
geances. 

To  ai-ms,  ye  citizens!  Show  your  battalions'  worth!  March!  Blood 
impure  shall  choke  their  plea  to  God  on  high.  We  are  the  dragon-seed 
their  furrows  fructify.    To  arms  ye  citizens  of  eveiy  land  on  earth ! 


176      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

IN  TIME  OF  WAR. 

Preceded  by 

HOW  GLAD  I  AM  THAT  I  AM  FRENCH. 

1917. 


THAT  IS  WHY  OUR  SONS  ARE  HEROES. 

I  waa  awaiting  something  else,  my  hopes  were  of  a  different  kind : 

I  wished  to  give  myself  to  you,  gi'eat  battles,  as  to  great  Nature  I 
have  given  myself;  but  I  no  longer  understand  you,  you  have  become 
so  supernatural! 

Nature  at  least  permitted  me  to  suffer  from  my  loves.  But,  battles, 
it  is  eitherwise  with  you,  who  wish  us  all  entire.  Ohl  I  know  the 
reason  why,  I  know  it  well. 

Void  of  love  save  for  that  of  the  Fatherland,  our  soldiers,  our  sons 
for  the  nature  of  France  are  dying. 

But,  battles,  indeed  one  need  not  be  too  harsh.  I,  I  suffer  from  love, 
and  my  trouble  comes  from  this. 

And  do  you  not  believe  that  all  our  sons — our  heroes — suffer  more 
pangs  from  love  than  from  shrapnel-fire? 

One  calls  them  heroes  because  they  fight  so  well.  But  was  it  to  be 
soldiers  they  were  made?  I,  I  call  them  heroes  because  they  have 
given  their  youth  and  the  love  they  dare  not  weep. 

Weep,  yes,  weep,  0  young  soldier,  shed  tears  more  bitter  than  gall ! 
If  you  do  not  weep  when  'tis  the  time  for  weeping,  you  will  weep  too 
much  when  you  return,  when  you  come  to  your  fatherland  again  and 
find  no  sweetheart  waiting  for  you  there. 


PAUL   FORT  177 

Weep,  yes,  weep,  0  young  soldier,  and  shed  great  tears  o'er  the  dwell- 
ing of  your  father,  shed  in  thought  great  tears  o'er  the  dwelling  of  your 
father; — ^you  have  not  the  right  to  weep. 

Your  pride  forbids  it,  and  your  chiefs  would  remind  you  of  your 
countiy.  But  does  not  one's  country  commence  -uith  the  dwelling  of 
one's  father?  or  no  matter  what  it  may  be,  at  the  hearth? — No!  no! 
forget  all  this.    Your  chiefs  are  right.    Do  not  weep. 

Weep,  yes,  weep,  0  young  soldier,  and  shed  great  tears  o'er  the  soft 
hands  of  your  mother;  shed  in  thought  great  tears  o'er  the  hands  of 
your  mother; — you  no  longer  have  the  right  to  weep. 

Your  new-fledged  pride  forbids  it;  and  your  reasoning  chiefs  are 
right.  If  your  country  begins  with  the  tender  hands  of  your  mother — 
or,  indeed,  better  still,  alas!  with  the  heart  of  your  love — forget  this, 
forget  this,  I  tell  you — you  have  not  the  right  to  weep. 

Forget  your  childhood,  forget  its  days  of  Spring,  forget  your  father 
and  mother,  forget  your  well-beloved. 

Forget  your  memories,  my  son, 

forget  the  cuckoos  singing  o'er  the  hills, 

the  slopes  of  the  cliffs,  the  alder-wood,  its  curlews, 

the  bush  of  mulberries,  the  tree  with  its  tufts  of  mistletoe, 

the  heather  flowering  on  the  arid  down, 

and,  iTinning  towards  the  village  and  its  hedges, 

the  stream  that  counts  its  pebbles  like  little  coins, 

and  the  lo-vN-ing  herds  of  kine,  their  udders  full, 

and,  set  in  the  very  midst 

of  the  prairie  populous  with  capering  beasts, 

forget  your  home, 

forget  your  home,  forget  its  windows  pure, 

the  smoke  of  the  roof,  the  stone  of  the  hearth, 

the  wdse  old  clock,  and  the  creaking  press, 

the  copper  basins  in  the  kitchen's  shade, 

the  scent  of  thyme  and  laurel. 

Forget  your  childhood,  forget  its  days  of  Spring,  forget  your  father 
and  mother,  forget  your  well-beloved. 


178      SELECTED  POEMS  AND  BALLADS  OF 

Forget  your  memories,  my  child : 

forget  the  bridge,  the  bell,  your  earlie&t  love.  .  .  .  "Would  it  not  have 
been  better,  0  my  father!  0  my  mother!  to  envelop  with  swaddling- 
bands  a  piece  of  wood,  to  wash  little  pebbles  as  does  the  stream,  than  to 
wash  your  son,  than  to  dress  your  baby  dear,  that  he  might  come  one  day 
to  this  miserable  pass,  to  this  rending  pang  of  forgetting  you — even  for 
his  country?  Would  it  not  have  been  better,  my  poor  well-beloved,  to 
embrace  the  wind  than  this  youth  who  one  day  would  be  false  to  you  ? 

"But  what  would  they  embrace — zounds!  our  fiancees?  Ohl  were 
there  ever  more  atrocious  wounds  ?  What  will  tliey  see,  the  eyes  of  those 
that  love  us? — My  God!  if  they  were,  if  they  were  to  fly  from  us?  .  ,  ." 

That  is  why  our  sons  are  heroes  I 

Weep,  yes,  weep,  0  young  soldier,  shed  tears  as  bitter  as  gall!  If 
you  do  not  weep  when  it  is  the  moment  for  weeping,  you  will  weep  too 
much  when  you  return,  when  you  come  to  your  fatherland  again  and 
find  no  sweetheart  waiting  for  you  there. 

But  no!  no!  I  blaspheme,  no!  You  have  not  made  a  sad  exchange. 
You  do  not  weep  ? — Go,  it  is  well,  my  son. — ^Less  your  chiefs  than  your 
heart  laid  on  you  this  command.  You  have  thrown  yourself  with  gaiety 
of  heart  into  this  agony.  "Long  live  my  Country  and  nothing  but  my 
Country!" — That  is  your  cry — towards  death,  awaiting  death,  in  the 
filth,  in  the  horrible  sounds  of  fighting  hand  to  hand,  in  the  streams  of 
burning  pitch.  ... 

That  is  why  our  sons  are  heroes! 


PAUL   FORT  179 

IN  THE  LAND 

OF  THE  WINDMILLS 

followed  by 

LIKE  A  SOLEMN  IiIUSIC 

1921. 


FORGOTTEN. 


France,  you  laugh  too  much,  it  seems.     War  will  come  to 
end  your  dreams. 


But  why  do  you  laugh  so  loud,  my  dear?    Is  it  that  all 
your  dead  may  hear? 


There's  laughter  underneath  the  earth,  evil  laughter,  cold 
and  thin. 


The  earth  is  black,  they  are  within.     They  watch  the 
graveworms'  ghastly  mirth 


while  wooden  crosses  feel  their  tooth.    They  laugh,  but 
'tis  at  you,  forsooth. 


France !    You  laugh  too  much,  it  seems.    War  will  come 
to  end  your  dreams. 


V 


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